I Have Loved You Along All Along
by ilovemythoroughbred
Summary: The year of the 73rd Hunger Games — the year in the life of Katniss, leading up to the fateful Games that would tear her and Gale apart. An AU story involving Katniss & Gale's plan for freedom. Katniss' POV. Katniss/Gale
1. One More Year

"Lighten up, Catnip," Gale torments, tossing his voice along the tall grasses between us.

"No," I scowl in return. "Not now. Not this time of year."

"You can't do anything about it," he continues. "It's going to be decided. Hell, it might already be decided. Maybe those jackasses at the Capitol pick each tribute by hand, personally choose each victim —"

"Gale, _stop_," I hiss. "I'm not in the mood. Stop." I hide my cheeks — which are more harsh and angular than they had been, before the drought — with a swath of my hair, sweeping my braid to shield my face.

Gale fall back to the dried grasses, leaning on his elbows. "Relax a little."

"No," I repeat. I wrap my arms tightly around my legs.

Gale rolls his eyes, slightly, but she doesn't notice. "Seriously. What are you going to be able to do about it?"

"I could volunteer," I retort.

I see a shiver slip through Gale's body, a ripple in an otherwise motionless pond. "You couldn't do that," he answers. His tone almost mimics my own hiss, though it's far too melodic to remind me anything of Buttercup's.

"I would. If I had to."

"What about your mother? And Prim, at home?" Gale asks, though for some reason he's almost begging in his voice.

I turn my head. "Couldn't …"

"I'd take care of them," he replies. "I would. Sorry."

I find myself smiling, though the cracks in my lips ache from the gesture. "What's your deal, Hawthorne?" I reach my arm out to nudge him on the shoulder.

I can tell I've knocked him off his pedestal, built on pillars of false assurance. "Nothing," Gale answers. "At least you're in better spirits."

"Hardly," I reply, turning my head to look over the barren hills.

When I look back at him, he's regained his composure, now laxly leaning against some rocks. His palms are covering his face, so I can't examine the wrinkles on either side of his eyes for the emotion I'm straining to see, given to him by years of responsibility he wasn't quite old enough for.

"Sorry," I end up replying.

He brings his hands back behind his head, opening his eyes. "I have a question," he says. "What would you do if— if I was a tribute?"

I rake my teeth against my lip, even though I can feel the metallic, toxic taste of blood slipping across my tongue. "I— why would you say that? Why would you ask that?"

He's unamused. "What would you do, Catnip?"

"I'd …" I trail off, hiding my gaze in my lap. "I'd take care of your family. And I'd worry. I'd worry myself sick."

I can hear him smirk. "Really?"

"Don't talk like that," I answer, but it's left him (and me) wondering if I was referring to the question or his reply.

Regardless, he doesn't answer. I leave my spot in the dirt for one by him near the rock, and ask my own question. "What would you do if _I_ were in the Games?"

He meets my gaze strongly. "I'd fight them when they took you away from me. And I'd worry about you every day. And take care of Prim and your mother, of course."

I don't smirk, like he did. I just … sit.

Gale sits up from the rock, taking my chin in his hands. I'm about to fight him, but the callouses at the base of each finger catch me off guard and I'm left mercifully in his hands, whatever he's trying to do.

"You've got blood on your lips," he whispers. He brings his other hand to my lips and wipes it off. "We should go to Greasy Sae's and get you something for that."

"What? Oh—okay," I breathe. I don't even hold my hand out, but he brings me to my feet. His stride covers more ground than mine, and I'm trailing behind him, just as my thoughts are trailing behind me, still caught back in every branch of the trees.

I know there's no way either of us will be able to afford anything to treat my lips, but he was so instantly driven to get _something_, do_ anything_, that I don't want to bring it up, even though he's certainly aware of it.

Thinking about it, there's no way either of us would be able to afford losing each other to these Games. He is my vision, my hearing. Hunting alone always leaves one half of your surroundings unknown, but with him, I've got sight of it all, even if it's not through my own eyes.

There's only so much game one person can take home by themselves. Losing him would mean not only that his family would suffer, but also mine. Separate from who I am with regards to my family, or who I am in the woods, there's also how I would fair, without him. I hardly socialize with anyone else, even if District 12 is small enough for everyone to be family.

Family. For years I've sworn that Prim is the only thing in this world I am sure I love. And there's absolutely no question about that. And no matter how many years pass, how many times she promises she's better, she's better, she's _better_, my mother is nothing more than a shell of who she used to be. I hate her for leaving Prim, leaving me, leaving us to live in her delusional world.

I've conveniently shelved Gale — who is, no doubt, a family member — away from that list, not sure if he's really, truly like that, truly what I think, but then again I don't think, he is.

Gale's pace finally notches back to a speed that matches my own, only because for some reason, he's kept his fingers wrapped around mine.

I pull my hand away and come to a stop, but his grip doesn't leave mine. "We can't afford to buy anything in there, what are you thinking!?" I question, but my tone is dipped in anger. "We don't have any meat!"

"Stop it," he replies flatly. "We'll figure it out. My mom washes her clothes. Tomorrow's Reaping Day, she understands."

"Like that's an excuse! Turning Reaping Day, of all days, into a deal for us, for me!" I make a final tug, freeing my hand from is.

Despite us being in the middle of the street and me yelling at him, he hasn't looked away once. "I'll figure it out. Don't worry about it. Just … stop. Relax."

"No!" I repeat. "Why are you, all of a sudden, _buying_ things for me!?"

"I'm not buying things for you!" his voice is rising now. "Stop being so dramatic! You look like hell, I'm just trying to help!"

"I don't need your help! And you're one to talk, I don't know what kind of girl would meet you on the slag heap when you can count every one of your ribs under your scarred skin!" I find myself growing more vicious now.

"Well, not every girl does, but, you wouldn't know, would you?"

I drive my finger into his chest. "You know what? I don't need your charity. I did just fine before I met you."

I'm already storming off, driving each volt of anger into the ground with every step, a lightning storm moving across the prairie.

"And may the odds be ever in your favor," I catch Gale call out, just before I'm out of ear shot.

I wipe finger against my lips, and am only half shocked to see my skin covered by blood. The drought's left us all dry, whether it's our pockets, hearts or stomaches. I've done my best to keep Prim full, whatever it takes. She religiously milks Lady every day and with the herbs I taught her to identify, she can help herself along with the game I am (sometimes) able to bring home.

It'll be an empty night, tonight. My mother won't react when yet another night falls without a meal on the table. It was so hard to get her to eat anything after our father died, that now I wonder if she ever feels anything, anything at all.

I'll put something together for Prim. I'll give her the little bit of bread that's left, and whatever Lady produced for the day.

I quietly slip through our door, letting the hastily nailed together boards fall back against the doorframe. Prim instantly shoots up from the floor and runs towards me.

"Katniss! You're back!" she grins, wrapping me in a hug, pressing her face to my chest.

"Hey, little duck," I reply, returning the hug.

She grabs at my fingers and leads me towards the back door, which is more of a fortunately placed hole in the back of the house, covered by some more rotten boards. "Gale dropped off three squirrels!"

"What?" I crouch down towards the pile of game by our feet. "What? When?"

"Just before you got back," Prim answers. "He said he'll meet you in the woods tomorrow before the reapings tomorrow."

I furrow my brow and turn my head a little. "Alright, then. Go get some herbs from outside while I start to cook these."

Prim smiles at me, and it's one of the most brilliant smiles I've ever seen. I squeeze her hand, and collect the game in my other.

My mother picks at her meal, which I promptly take away from her and give to Prim instead. The hollow, haunting look that hangs behind my mother's eyes isn't enough to pull at my heartstrings. She's lifeless now, barely enough to call a human at all.

Prim is the healthiest of all of us. And well she should be. It's enough for me to look over my bleeding lips, pointy ribs or pale, splotchy skin when I see Prim's glowing face and shining blue eyes. She's still skinny, still stringy, but she's healthy.

Buttercup isn't doing so bad either. He's always been an easy keeper, which is a lucky thing when we've got barely enough food to feed us three. Plus, drowning him in a bucket looks nicer and nicer every day.

This night looks and feels especially dark, when I finally have time to rest and look out the window. Our shack of a home is only lit by one, half alive candle, which dwindles with each draft that slips in through the cracks of every board.

I can hear the crumple of the boards under bare feet. "What are you doing up, Prim? It's late."

Her eyes shine a different blue than usual, and her lip wobbles. "What—what—what if you get picked, Katniss?"

I pull my arms around her neck. "Oh, my little duck," I murmur, pressing my lips against her hair.

Her pale fingers grasp at the neck of my shirt. "What if you do? What if it's you this year?"

I pull her closer. "Don't think like that."

Prim looks back at me. The only thing I am sure that I love in this world. Her little, blonde eyelashes are soaked with silent tears, and her whole body trembles with each sniffle. "But, I can't _not_. It might be you, Katniss! It might be you!"

I never worry about my mother leaving the security of her bed, where she can pretend she never hears her two daughters crying together, where she can pretend she's still the mother she thinks she is. Prim's sobs are silent, but all the more gut wrenching.

When I don't answer her, Prim parts her lips to speak again. "How many times is your name in?"

"I don't know," I lie. I try to bring her heaving shoulders back into my frame, but she's strong enough to resist.

"_No_, Katniss. How many times is your name in?" she's almost accusing, but her sniffles separate each word.

"It doesn't matter," I answer softly. I trust myself, never to yell at Prim. I want so badly for her life to be … what mine was not. I want so badly for her to never hear yelling, or fighting, or see blood, or feel tears, or feel pain, or shame, or hate, or anger, sorrow, despair, grief . . .

"Tell me, Katniss, please," Prim begs again. Her lip is starting to wobble, and another round of sobs travels up her spine. "Tell me how many times your name is in there," she manages before her tears leave her speechless.

"Prim," I whisper again, but she's whimpering so pitifully now. I rock her back and forth, holding her tightly, winding my fingers in her curls. She's so sad, so worried, so confused, so scared, because of me. Because she loves me.

A stiff draft lets itself in under the door, and Prim snuggles into my shoulder. I press my eyes together tightly, before I carefully stand up and carry Prim to the bed. I leave her with my mother, knowing my thrashing will leave her even more upset.

Buttercup is the last to enter the tiny room. His yellow eyes are the only thing I can make out in the darkness, and he scratches at my bedpost before jumping up beside me. "Go away, you wretched thing," I hiss at him, pushing at him with my hand. "I'm allergic to you, anyways."

But, instead, the old tom curls at my feet, covering my toes. I roll my head back into my pillow, and clench my eyes shut. The only thing I'm sure about the next day is that Prim will be safe. For one more year. One more lousy year. But, it's one more year, nonetheless.


	2. It Wasn't You

**AN: To the guest reviewer — thank you for pointing out the mistake about Gale's age. It's fixed now.**

"Honey," someone whispers from above me. White, knobby knuckles have me at my shoulders, and I foggily blink awake.

My mother is uncomfortably poised above me, trying to wake me as if she's personally going to escort me to my death. Thing is, she might as well be. "I laid out an outfit," she says simply.

"What are you doing?" I find myself snarling in reply, shoving her away from me. She's sickly thin and weak, and nearly falls to the ground with my push.

She clenches her fists, her scraggly wrists bending outwards, before she moves to the bed and pulls a white frock to her chest, holding it against her frame as if I look anything like her.

"That's fine," I answer flatly, grabbing it from her. As I pull my fingertips away, I realize the grubby coal stain I left.

My mother's face strains even more. "I can get that out," she says, but I pull the dress back again.

I grit my teeth. "Don't worry about it."

I can feel her eyes on me as I leave, her face knitted together as if she's so concerned about that coal stain, that little reminder of the explosion that blew everything up, that led to her lifeless skin and empty stomach.

When I return to the room, I let down my hair, and it's Prim who moves towards it with eager fingers. "Let me braid it, Katniss," she pleads.

"Have at it, little duck," I answer, looking down at the black streaks. It's a tribute to my father, my district, if anything.

Prim's fingers are just as nimble and skilled as my mother's. I hardly feel her little fingers working through the strands of my thick hair, tucking one part under, one part over, working down my head, down the tail of the braid.

"You look beautiful, Katniss," she breathes when she finally steps away. I reach a hand up to the braid, tracing the intricate pattern down to the tail.

"Oh, little duck," I hum, as I stand up, and drape my arms around her neck, leaning down to kiss her head, just as I did last night. "You're the most graceful duck of all."

Her hands reach down to her dress, which was once one of mine. Prim is no doubt far more pretty than I ever was, even on a day like this. Her hair is a light, summery blonde, each thread light and baby fine. Even her face, with every soft, pleasant feature, her porcelain skin, thin, tight lips.

She is a young, vibrant picture of my mother, and I hope so fiercely that she won't ever turn into the inanimate, soulless figure who lingers around our little cabin.

I look towards the window, catching the sun as it flits behind the windowpane. "I need to go meet Gale," I say. I look to Prim, who's eagerly searching my eyes. "I'll meet you in the center, okay, little duck? Find me when you get there."

Suddenly, she looks so small to me, standing in her too big dress, with her too skinny frame. I'm halfway through the doorway, but I lean in for a quick squeeze and a kiss on the head. "Tuck in your tail, little duck," I repeat with a smile.

"Go meet your boyfriend, Katniss," she answers with a dazzling smile.

"Don't start," I return, offering a half smile. Prim trots back into the house, and I'm left to go leave to the forest.

I try a little harder than usual to not scuff my boots, which I had polished last night with some squirrel fat. I painstakingly place each foot between every twig, every pile of decomposing leaves.

"Little late for that, isn't it? I mean, you've already got that stain on your dress," Gale calls from ahead of me. He's standing in his Reaping Day best, with simple, gray pants that must have been his fathers' (though, you'd never know, he filled the clothes as if he was his father), and a white shirt, coincidentally free of any coal marks.

I smirk. "Oh, like you don't have a stain anywhere, Hawthorne," I remark.

Gale snakes his hands into his pocket, and bends his head down to examine his clothes by my invitation. Cocking his head, he replies "Well, my mother does wash the district's clothes."

I take the last few steps towards him and swat him playfully with my palm. "How is Hazelle?"

He stares off into the distance for a second. "Good enough. Times are hard enough for all of us. She and I have been giving up our meals for Rory and Vick and Posy."

I nod. "I can't remember the last time I had a real meal. But, Prim's doing well," I add.

Gale turns towards me. "What about your mother? You two getting along any better?"

I snicker. "Hardly," I say, realizing that the snide remark has become one of my most used phrases. "She makes me so angry when I realize she left Prim. She left me, too, but she left Prim, most of all. She left us to go live in that delusional dreamland of hers. Where she can get away from this godforsaken cold."

"Calm down, killer," Gale chuckles. "You're going to have to give her a chance. She's still your mother."

I roll my eyes for the second time that day. "_Hardly_," I repeat.

Gale shrugs, and drops his gaze to the ground. The laugh lines on the side of his slips fade, and he turns to me with a serious face. "What—what if it's one of us?"

I let my breath out of my mouth, and sigh, finding myself leaning my head against Gale's broad shoulder. "How many times is your name in?"

"Enough."

I knit my brow together. "If—if it's you, I'll take care of Vick and Rory and Posy. And Hazelle. I'll feed them."

He sighs. "I know. I know you would. And you know that I'd do the same."

I brush my fingers against his in sympathy, but he's quick to grab my hand in his. "I don't want to go."

Gale forces a smile. "Me either," he replies. "We should get going, though. This might be the only time the Peacekeepers would punish us if we're late."

"Yea," I add absentmindedly. I don't pull my hand away when he keeps it wrapped up in his grasp, rather follow him out of the forest towards the square.

The only glimpses of the other districts I've ever seen is from television, but I'm sure their town squares have to be more decorative then ours come Reaping Day. The districts closest to the Capitol — Districts 1 and 2 — treat the Games as an hour, proudly taking the title as tribute, sometimes volunteering, for the chance. But, as you move more and more to the edges of Panem, the tributes are more wobbly kneed, more tear stained in their faces.

Our town square is a rainbow of blandness. From the children, with their washed out clothes, sheet white faces and stiff postures, to the dirty-yet-clean slate that covers the ground, to the broken, leaning Justice building that stands at the front of it all. But, the Panem logo is plastered everywhere — on the said buildings, the ground, the trains. And perhaps the most identifiable Panem logo of all, across every face of every terrified child — fear.

Our fingers slip away from each other as Gale heads towards Hazelle and I towards Prim. She's already nearing tears, when I take her in my arms.

"Don't cry," I plead, as I bend down to eye level. "Don't worry about me. Hush, Prim, hush. Shh. It's okay."

My mother raises her hand as if she's offering to console Prim, but I pull Prim's shoulders closer and narrow my eyes at my mother. "I'll find you after, okay? It's going to be alright."

I pry her fingers from around my neck, and kiss her head a last time. She instinctively winds her fingers in our mother's dress.

I move towards the female section, but I end up crashing into Gale. He pulls me in for a hug, which I accept. He's something to lean into, something strong. He brings his finger towards my eye to wipe away a tear, and offers me a small smile. "For Prim. And me," he whispers, before he walks away.

I press my lips into a thin line and move into the fifteen year old section. They arrange us into age groups, separating each year by thin, frayed ropes like we're cattle. As I watch Effie Trinket, our ridiculous and over the top Capitol escort make her away across the stage, I wonder what she sees, when she looks into this sea of dying children. With her rich and vibrant colors, elaborate outfits, intricate make up, all reeking of luxury, fine goods, _health_. What does she see, when she looks into the washed out ocean, of starving children, eyes fogged by tears, their helpless mothers and fathers roped off behind them? Does she feel maybe the tiniest pit of pity, sympathy? Or is this all nothing but a … game to her?

"Welcome, welcome," she pipes, raising her hands into the air as if she's in the most wonderful place she could ever dream of. "Welcome to the 73rd Hunger Games reaping!"

A hush comes over the audience, as Effie steps aside, teetering on sky high heels, giving us full view of the screen. Every year, they play a short movie that tells about the Dark Days of Panem, when the citizens separated from those who led them, leading to a time of war and disparity.

"To remind us of these times, and to honor those who fought in those battles, each district will offer up one young woman and one young man to fight to the death," I find myself mouthing every word along with the track of President Snow's voice.

"Happy Hunger Games," Effie repeats, when the movie comes to an end. She loudly draws her hands together in a clap, and taps the microphone before she speaks again. "Ladies first! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

I raise my eyes as she lowers her hand into the bowl of female tributes, from which The 73rd Hunger Games' tribute will be called. She turns her head and shoots a ludicrous smile across the audience, grazing her fingertips across each slip, dancing across the edges of the paper as if she actually enjoys the suspense. Her blue nails — in fact, her whole ensemble is blue, with some swirls of yellow and splotches of green — tap against the glass when she finally grabs a slip.

I start to frantically try to count how many times my name is in there. Thirty? No, no, that will be next year . . . Twenty … twenty three? No, what about tesserae?

"Althea Baxwoll," Effie announces. "Althea Baxwoll! Come on up, love, come on up!"

Everyone's heads crane to see from which age group the poor girl will stumble out of. Stumble, she does, as she's shoved out of the mass of people, falling to her knees. She's a stocky thing, though she has the distinct Seam look with her dark hair and gray eyes. When she pries herself from the ground, I watch the bones in her leg move. She might be stocky, but she's just as hungry as the rest of us.

Althea is sheet white, too. When she makes it up to the stage, she's trembling. Effie looks down for a moment at Althea's shaking legs, disapprovingly (after all, she's still waiting for a tribute that will win the Games and move her up to a different districts' escort) , but then quickly looks up and smiles sharply before moving over to the boys' bowl. Gale's bowl.

I turn to look at Gale, in the very far left of the town square. It's his second to last year, now that he's seventeen. He's taller than the rest of the boys in his age group, and more well fed, considering he can hunt. But, he's still pitifully bony.

He catches my glance and mouths 'Don't worry about me.' across the square.

I shrug in response, and shake my head. 'I can't not,' I mouth back.

He smiles again, and turns back to face the front, I mimic him, nervously clasping my hands together, digging my short nails into my wrist, like it's the only thing holding me to the ground.

"Tug Hollow," Effie proclaims with a smile. I feel my eyes roll back in my head a little in relief when it's not Gale that stumbles up to the stage. Tug might as well be Gale from the back, with thick, dark brown hair, that has the same lackluster quality as everyone who's not sure where their next meal is coming from.

His eyes aren't half as alive as Gale's though, from what I can tell. The two children — really, that's what they are — stand halfheartedly before us, upon the stage, as the cameras zoom close into their faces and give everyone in Panem a personal invitation to scrutinize them.

"There you have it!" Effie shrieks, and her voice rings through everyone's ears. "Althea Boxwoll and Tug Hollow! The tributes of the 73rd Hunger Games!"

Stiffly, children unlock their elbows from their sides and clap a thumping, soft clap for the terrified tributes. The adults join in, and the only noise above the dull thumps of hands slapping together is the cries of Althea's mother.

When Effie finally teeters off stage, us children standing in the roped off areas are left to our own devices. I arm through some starstruck people around me, those still left in the stiff, half dead daze that Reaping Day brings along every year.

I push my way through the rest of the people until I spot Prim, clutching to Gale's pant legs. The biggest breath I've let out all day presses itself out of my chest, and I break into a smile.

"It wasn't _you_!" Prim whimpers, throwing her arms around my legs now.

"No, little duck, it wasn't me," I answer, bringing her close for yet another hug. When she finally wipes her wet face, I reach for Gale.

"It wasn't you," I breath, but he pulls me in for a hug before I can do the same. His arms lock me in his grasp, but I find myself collapsing into him. He's strong, he can hold me, and it's the first time someone has held me since my father.

Gale moves his lips beside my ear. "It wasn't you," he repeats, and the little hairs of his scruffy chin skim my neck.

I move my arms down to his hand. "Let's go," I say. He pulls his arm from around me, and nods, wordlessly.


	3. Little Bird

I always imagine a bird, soaring through the air, until it sees something below it, some crudely put together buildings, sad looking people. Either way, for some reason, this little bird tips its wings one way or the other until it's cutting through the space, the air until it's down by this pathetic excuse of a civilization.

And this little bird, perched on, maybe the rooftop of the tallest building in the little village, would sweep it's little bird gaze across the small town, across every shack of a home, with the decrepit shutters and rotting clapboards. But, the little bird's eyes would stop at two houses, where the falling down shutters would be drawn tight against the thin walls of the house. Where the joyful sounds of the celebrations in every _other_ home are locked out.

Maybe, somewhere inside me, _I'd_ like to be that bird. Not only would I be free from the only place I know of where you can starve in safety, I could see the forests that I hunt in, and the forests all across the rest of Panem that I would like to hunt in. I would be able to see the rest of the world, whatever is outside of Panem, if there is even anything outside of the barricaded walls that shelter us. What, if anything, is there to be sheltered _from_? Are there people, like us? Perhaps people who live so differently, not under the thumb of their ruler, who makes a damn holiday out of their children fighting every year?

Sometimes I envy that little bird, just because of the wings they bear, that can carry them away from any troubles, any annoyances. But, if push came to shove, could I … do that? Leave Prim, leave Gale? Leave them with some words that assured that I loved them, but not enough to stick with them through their problems?

Wings or wingless, we still pass Althea and Tug's houses on our way to our own celebration. It's one of the first years I can remember where both tributes were kids from the Seam. Children from the merchant section of town lead relatively better lives, and it's easy to distinguish a starved Seam kid from a merchant kid who's always had some kind of meal on their dinner plate.

"They're not going to win," I say quietly as we pass the two, quiet houses.

Gale presses his lips together. "They can't. It's not fair."

"Have two Seam kids ever been picked?" I wonder aloud.

Gale shakes his head. "No. Either way, little miss Effie Trinket won't be getting _her_ winning tributes this year. Which means she's stuck being the district escort for 12 for one more year," his face loosens up into a crooked, sad sort of smile.

"I guess the odds aren't in her favor," I declare in her silly Capitol accent. Gale chuckles, nudging my shoulder with his as we make our way home.

Every year that the Hawthornes and Prim and I escape the reapings, we hold a little feast and celebration. Gale and I bring out the meat we've been storing and curing especially for the feast, and Prim uses butter and cheese she's gotten from Lady. Even my mother goes out of her way to celebrate it, digging out tasty herbs that make the otherwise bland dishes taste good enough to eat.

When Gale and I push open the screen door, Hazelle and my mother's gazes quickly shoot to our interlocked hands. I blush, pulling away, but Gale looks up with a cocky smile and holds the door for me.

Hazelle crosses the kitchen with some roast squirrel in her hands, and raises her eyebrows at me. But, her smile gives her away, and I rush towards her for a hug.

"This smells delicious," I breathe when I get a smell of the squirrel. "God, how in the world did you afford those spices?"

"Well, dear," Hazelle begins with a smile. "Oh, come on, love. You know Gale can weasel Greasy Sae out of anything."

I smile and nod. "Sure do."

Prim and Rory are the next to enter the kitchen, but it's more of a crash as they speed through at a run. Vick trails behind, one arm held back as he tows little Posy behind her.

"Be gentle!" Hazelle calls to them without ever looking over her shoulder. I watch her for a moment, singlehandedly manning all of the food preparation (my mother really doesn't do cooking, besides herbs) and keeping an eye on the kids. She is the quintessential mother — caring, hardworking, loving — while my mother is just a ghost of it.

Hazelle whirls around and lands a wooden spoon in my palm. "Go beat the herbs together," she orders. It's the nicest order anyone could be given, with Hazelle's sweet, rich voice, and hint of a smile on her lips. "Because heaven knows your ma can't do it."

I grin, and take the bowl in my hands as I mash up the herbs as best as I can. Gale lingers around the kitchen, haphazardly moving around, trying to silently offer his help. But, Hazelle beats him to it and shoves him towards the fire pit out back to watch the roast squirrels.

When she returns, she's absolutely beaming. "So you and Gale …" she trails off, nearly laughing.

My blush flames red. "We're just friends," I answer.

"Oh, honey," she replies. "I know. You don't have to cover it up. He talks about you constantly."

I look up from the paste of herbs. "What? He talks about me?"

"I wouldn't lie to you, would I?" Hazelle says. "It's alright, sweet. I get it. Young love."

I manage a smile. "Thanks."

"Everyone in town thinks you're going to get married someday," Hazelle continues.

At least her voice fills the void of my silent one. I let her keep talking, focusing on every mint leaf, grinding it into a paste with the other herbs.

She doesn't look up at me when she speaks again, almost as if she's thinking aloud and I just so happen to be there. "I wouldn't mind you, as a daughter-in-law. Another woman around the house … wouldn't be half bad. It'd be damn nice, in fact."

I roll my lips together, scraping the wooden spoon on the edge of the bowl. "The herbs are done," I say quietly.

Hazelle looks brightly at me. "Oh, sorry, dear! I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. It's just that, well, Gale really cares about you. I can tell just by the way he looks at you and moves with you. It's so nice to see him happy, he hasn't beamed like this since his father died."

I want to assure that it's fine, but as she continues on, my words grow irrelevant.

"I'm sorry," she apologizes quickly. "There I go again. Well, you know what they say about a mother and her son! Dear, would you mind getting the kids and your mother? The feast is just about ready," she talks quicker than I comprehend and I nod, hoping I caught it all.

Grateful for the distraction, I head towards one of three rooms in the home. The Hawthornes' house is bigger than ours, which is a thankful thing considering there's four kids plus Hazelle. The kitchen is the heart of the home, while just to the left is the bedroom. I pick the right, and head into the living room, which is nothing more than a couple of overturned boxes and a rotting chair.

"Dinner's up," I call from the doorway.

Posy flies up from her spot on the tattered and stained rug, dropping the cornhusk dolls in her hand. Vick and Rory look up from their wrestling match, and Gale stands up from the couch.

He offers me a warm smile — which is rather unusual for him — and then continues into the kitchen. I stand a little longer in the room, soaking up the warmness the kids had left in it, the warm embers in a fireplace. My home is empty, and always pitifully cold, but though the Hawthornes have no better heating system then some good logs, their house is so much warmer, so much fuller. The little belongings and knickknacks, lining along the shelves, cluttering the tables. They fill the space, make it homey, cozy, comfortable. The Hawthornes' home is distinctly theirs, yet mine could be anyone's. Is _this_ what a little bird would notice? Could they notice the small details, the unimportant components in an otherwise simple picture? Would a little bird be able to feel what I feel, standing right here? Does the cold air of the wind across a little bird's wings make them immune to the warm, still air of a real _home_?

Gale's footsteps fade, but then his face is back at the door. "You coming?"

It's my turn to smile. "Yeah."

He holds out his hand and I gladly accept. His palm is just as warm as those warm embers I love.

We practically waltz into the kitchen, led on by the scents of everything Hazelle had put together. When she sees us, she raises her eyebrows and acts as if she's about to say something, but she never does.

Rory, Vick, Posy and Prim all crowd around the table, scooping the different food onto their plates. It's the richest meal we eat all year, and I can practically see their eyes bulging at the thought of having a full meal.

Regardless that we eat light to save the food for this feast, we all eat well anyways. Even my mother eats, and this year she even attempts to make small talk with Hazelle. I love Hazelle, maybe even more than my own mother, but she doesn't have an ounce of patience to put up with my mother's absentminded, wish-wash personality.

"To another year," Hazelle finally declares when my mother stops running her mouth about trivial little things. "To another year of safety, happiness, and health."

Everyone bows their heads and raises up their portion of water. We all bend forward to touch the wooden bowls we use for glasses together, and then happily tip it back into our mouths for a real drink.

Safety, happiness, and health.


	4. Some Sort of Pretty

**AN: Sorry that this chapter is shorter than the others I've been putting out! I've been trying to make them longer, since that's feedback I got on my other stories but this was a difficult chapter for me to write, for some reason, and school started back up today. Writing is really something I enjoy that's a stress relief for me so I'll make time to keep working on these. As always, thank you SO much for the reviews! I've gotten some really great feedback on this and it makes me really happy. :) Have a great back to school, everyone (if that's possible) . . .**

"Bye, love," Hazelle murmurs as she bends down to kiss Prim on the head, just as I do. Prim hugs her tightly back, and Hazelle glows from the gesture. Hazelle lives for her children, and it's easy to tell, from the way she embraces Prim to how hard she worked when Posy came down the measles.

"And you," she continues, moving down on to me. "Stay safe out in those woods, you hear? I don't need any broken kids to take care of," but, her serious face breaks into a smile and she hugs me tightly, too.

I grin. Hazelle accepted, and embraced the idea, of me basically being one of her own.

She proves the idea when she moves down the line to my mother. Instead of wrapping her sturdy arms around my mother, she grabs her at the shoulders and tips her forehead closer. "Stay around for these kids. Stay around for them."

My mother's face is just as plain (yet still just as strained and absent) as it always is. Hazelle stares a bit longer into my mother's eyes, but she realizes they're as empty as the rest of my her.

When she moves back towards me, she sighs. "Take care of yourself. And Prim. If you never need help, you know where we are."

I nod. "Thanks," I reply. It's a basic, ordinary thanks, but Hazelle knows it's as heartfelt as I can get.

"Good," she smiles, squeezing my shoulder.

Gale's the next one in line. I part my lips to thank him, but he's already got me in a hug for the fourth or fifth time again that day.

"Sunday?" he asks.

"Sunday," I answer. "The rock. Like always."

His smile is back. "Like always, Catnip."

I punch his arm. "Bye, Gale."

He smirks back at me. I put my arm around Prim as we turn back to our house, Prim and I linked at the hip while our mother drifts off to the left. I'm the only one of us who crosses the path between our house and the Hawthornes' to not be totally blinded by the darkness. Prim grabs at me every time she starts to go down, but I'm there to pull her up.

She's not quiet, either. Years of tearing through the woods has gifted me a soft tread, but I also admit to have being quiet to begin with. Any time Gale brings up the idea of running off (which has become more and more, lately), my first excuse is Prim. Not that she can't make it through the forest as fast as we can (she can't), or that she's far too fragile to ever last on pieces of raw meat and whatever water we could find (she couldn't). My biggest fear about pulling her into the big, bad woods with us is how loud she is — they'd catch us in a moment.

We make it to the house eventually, and I tuck Prim into bed, while my mother lingers in the room, a while longer.

"What are you doing?" I snapped. I felt almost bad for a moment, staring back at the ghostly face.

"Katniss, why are you angry at me?" she said quietly.

I narrowed my eyes slightly. "Are you saying that you don't know _why_?"

"No, Katniss," my mother said softly, folding herself onto a chair. But, she didn't sit like most people, stuffed into the very back of the chair, slumped down, grateful to be off their feet. She perched at the end, her torso slightly leaning forward, hands folded primly in her lap, feet stiff and square set on the floor.

"Oh, come on," I rolled my eyes. "Don't play this game. I don't have time. I have to provide for this family. Know what that's like? Making sure your daughters have something to eat every night?"

My mother's thin face aged her far beyond her years. I imagine that one upon a time, she must have been some sort of pretty, with her blonde hair and blue eyes. Now, she's so wispy, so nonexistent, just barely there. "_You_," she pauses, as if the emphasis on the single word was exhausting, "You know that your father …. that was difficult on me."

"And, you think it wasn't hard on me? On Prim!? You left her without a mother!" I yell, throwing up my hands. "I lost my father! Don't act like that didn't affect me!"

"Katniss, he knew the Seam. This was his home … this isn't natural for me. This isn't where I belong …" but, when she speaks, she trails off with every point, too tired to end each sentence.

I stand up from where I had taken a seat beside her. "You're poor now! You don't have any money! This is where you belong, with the rest of the poor, struggling people! You're not a merchant anymore!"

Her haggard face pinches together. "Please, Katniss, you know …"

"'I know'! 'I know'? What do 'I _know_', Mom? I'm only in school half the time because I'm the only one who can make sure Prim eats!" So many years of emotionless existing may have worked to my mother's advantage, as she hangs in her chair, sitting motionlessly. None of my words register, and it's like arguing with myself.

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself!" I scream, collapsing down to the floor and crashing my wrists into the floor. "Stop acting as if you being a miserable, pathetic excuse of a human being will change anything! It won't, Mom! He's dead! Dad's gone! That mine blew him right to pieces! Okay?! He's gone!"

I know Prim will wake up if I keep on like this, but every time I scream at my mother, she never reacts. It never comes across her face, it's like she doesn't even know that I'm angry, that she's hurt me, that she's hurt Prim …

She doesn't realize know, even if my eyes are starting to squeeze out tears that I don't really feel. "Why don't you get this!?" I cry, my voice turning scratchy. "Why don't you understand?! Why aren't you _here_ anymore?"

I think I see a tear in my mother's eye, caught behind the mask that fogged up between her and us. "Katniss …"

"No!" I sob. "No! Can't you see, that this is why I hate you?! You're not here anymore! You're not living!"

I slam my fists into the floorboards again. I can feel the force of my palms ripple through the floor, through the nonexistent foundation, the rotted wood. "Stop staring at me!"

She looks even smaller in her chair now, still teetering at the edge of the seat. But, when I look at her face, look at the wrinkles that don't just line her eyes or her lips like the laugh marks Gale has or the smile marks Hazelle has, but long lines, that traverse across her face, make her so much older than she really is, so much more unlovely than she might have been.

But, there's a tear, traveling down one of those lines. Her eyes suddenly seem so much brighter, illuminated by her wet tears. "I'm sorry …" she whispers, but she doesn't look at me.

In fact, I can't see where exactly where she's looking, but my best guess is somewhere far beyond what the human eye sees in present time. She's looking somewhere far behind the _right now_, maybe looking to the merchant sidewalks she toddled upon when she was young, meeting my father for the first time. Maybe she's looking back to the last time she sang, out in the woods with my father and I, when I was little, and those damn birds stopped to listen, and sang it back right at her. That was the last time I had heard her sing. The last time she looked as young as she was.

"I'm sorry …" she repeats.

I pull myself from the floor, brushing my fists, which are quickly bruising from where I struck the floor. I squint my eyes together, blinking away the little bit of wetness caught up in my eyelashes. I look to my mother, still set on her chair, frailer than ever. "Stop," I say, before I turn to the bedroom.

Prim's little blue eyes are staring wide eyed at me, between the door crack. "Come on little duck," I hum, taking her in my arms. "Don't worry about that. You need to sleep, you have school tomorrow. Come on, little duck."

I keep repeating little phrases to my little duck, my little bird, until she's lulled back to sleep, this time in my arms. Truthfully, dreaming to become a little bird is useless, when I have my own bird already in my life. Maybe I can't be the bird, can't be the one flying off on new adventures, but isn't it just as sweet to protect the little bird, nourish the little bird? And when the time comes, watch that little bird fly for the very first time?


	5. Smile

**AN: To the guest reviewer who pointed out the mistake about Gale's age, thank you! I went back and fixed it. As always, thank you all for the reviews and have a happy & fun Labor Day weekend!**

I'm easily the first one up the next morning. Dawn is an hour or two away from breaking, but I'm restless enough for it to be past noon. I slip out of bed, noticing Prim curled against my mother on the bed across from mine. In sleep, my mother looks better, healthier. More like Prim, than a haggard, helpless being.

Buttercup lets out a hiss when I bump into him coming off the bed. His yellow eyes look just as tired as I'm sure mine are. Sleep is another struggle when winter comes.

It really is getting later into the season. When I slip into a pair of pants and my father's jacket and boots, I'm grateful for the extra warmth they give. Most of District 12 spends the winter months freezing and without light, and we're without exception. Even some of the merchant families have no electricity, just enough money to buy what they need.

I have a few hours to stalk around in the dark before I'm expected at school. It's pointless for me to attend school anyways, when half of it is about the Hunger Games which I am certain I don't need to know anything more about. Some of what we're taught may be useful for the other kids, those who aren't expected to feed their families. But, I filled my father's empty boots so many years ago, I don't remember what it's like to be a child.

I make sure Prim is there for every minute of her schooling, though. Education is a privilege, I know, and it's a wonder President Snow even bothers to make sure District 12 has any sort of education system at all. We're so far forgotten, we barely have enough food or water to last.

Education really has no value for me now, when I have no desire to be one of teachers who has to retell the Dark Days and the Hunger Games every year. Or any of the other careers they promise we could achieve — a farmer in District 11, a fisherman in 4, maybe even the mayor, or a doctor in the Capitol. All of them involve leaving District 12, though. Even the teachers gave up on trying to make 12 look good.

For Prim, however, I make sure to tell her over and over that anything she can dream of, she can be. I may be fooling myself, assuring myself that she'll get out of this hell hole, whether it's out in the woods or a better district. I can make sure she has what she needs to escape.

Escaping, really, is the word. District 12 may have been where I was born and raised, even where some of my happiest memories lay. But, it's hell here. The constant feeling of that emptiness in your stomach, being constantly tired because it's a struggle just to _live_. What I wouldn't do to live somewhere where survival wasn't a question.

Ask Gale, however, and he'd say that he'd rather be off in the wilderness. Truthfully, I wouldn't mind going with him, but I still have my little bird to care for. I'm the mother bird, guarding a nest that was built on the teetering edge of a branch, that I would have never picked for myself. But, I still have to protect the baby inside that nest.

But, if he asked me to leave with him, asked me to go, with every plan in place, would I? We could easily make a living out there — it'd be just like living in 12, without the Hunger Games. We could do it. We could definitely do it.

It doesn't matter, right now. I'm still out in the cold and Prim and my mother are still hungry. I've got enough time to take down enough game for breakfast, even if I have to do so without Gale.

I'm half blind without him. Half dead, half alive, even. I only seem to hear the birds behind me when they fly off, just out of the reach of my arrow. I only see the small deer at the edge of the field, when I turn around fast enough to scare it off.

But, I'm also half hoping Gale will turn up around the corner. He's often up this early, and he has even more mouths to feed than I do. An early morning hunting trip isn't totally out of the question.

I never stumble upon him as I make my way through the woods. I manage to land my arrow through the eye of not one squirrel, but two, which is meal enough for Prim and another one to trade. I take down an injured goose for my mother. Goose is a rare meal, considering the only time we ever see them down here is when they're migrating down to warmer weather. With it's injury, the goose couldn't make it.

I grab some of the herbs I know for my mother while I'm crossing back towards home. She never thanks me when I bring them, just nods and files them away in the neat cabinet. In some way, she must be thankful, because there's no way she'd ever go out into the woods on her own.

The town is quiet, when I slip under the fence. Nobody is lingering about the streets, but I spot some lights going on in houses, some children beginning to wake for school, adults preparing for work. I must be a sight — a lonely, solemn girl, a goose and squirrels slung over her shoulder, crossing the town square with her head bent low.

Even though the District 12 Peacekeepers are lax about the rules, I'm still afraid of being caught with game. I'm not sure why I decided to cross through town, which is the most obvious route home, but I'm too cold to take the extra time to go along the fence to our little shack. I'm frozen to the bone.

A few of the quiet, broken down shops are opening. Some of the men who work in the mines must stop by before they're stuck underground for the rest of the day. I imagine the shops must have been dressed up in elaborate, circus like colors one time, but for now, they're faded and broken.

I look into the bakery window as I pass by. I look down at the squirrel in my hand, and decide to step in.

I'm greeted by smells I can only dream of. I don't know the baker's family too well, considering they're fairly well off (as far as it goes in District 12) and my family is far from it. But, the baker buys Gale and I's squirrels, sometimes, if I meet him instead of his wife at the door. I've met the son once or twice before.

His wife is wildly against hunting. In fact, she must be wildly against most everything because I've caught a glance of her reaming out her son for some reason or another multiple times. The look in his eye always says that he's innocent, but she must see otherwise.

I find myself using the front entrance, this time. Gale and I almost always enter through their backyard to the back door, which is usually the safest way to not meet the wife. But, it's warm in the bakery and I don't want to go back out.

It's the boy behind the counter, this time. "Hello," he says politely, but it's not forced at all. He smiles heartily at me, and leans against the counter. "How can I help you?"

I don't bother with the pleasantries. "I usually sell squirrels to your father," I say plainly. "Could I trade this for some stale bread?"

The boy mentions for me to step up a little towards him. I follow, holding the squirrel up. "Shot him in the eye, no bloody marks on him," I add.

He brushes the blonde hair out of his eyes. He's got hair almost like my mother, and it'd be hard to tell he and I were from the same district. "My father raves about your squirrels."

I bring the corners of my lips up in a curt smile. "Glad to hear it."

He acts as if he's about to say something else, but he ends up nodding, but it's not towards anything in particular. "I'll go get my father."

"Great," I find myself replying. My average voice has nothing on his — he has the whole etiquette thing down. My excuse is because I have no patience to interact with people. When the district is probably riddled with Capitol spies, it can't be a bad thing.

The boy returns with a man who looks identical to him. They look just as how my mother and Prim look when they're together — in sync and together.

"Ah, Katniss," the baker says with a smile. His smile isn't forced, either. "Got some squirrels for me?"

"Yup," I reply, holding it up again. "Could I get some stale bread?"

"You got it," the baker answers, taking the squirrel from me. "Peeta, get her the bread while I go put this out back."

The boy's eyes light up when his father speaks to him, but his father is already out the door when the boy answers. "Sure, Pop."

He turns back to me, and then bends down as he examines the bread counter. They must have rearranged the store, because the only bread I've ever managed to get was from the pile in the corner.

A look of satisfcation registers on the boy's face for a moment, and he quickly looks behind him. When he turns back around, he grabs two loaves of bread.

"Take these," he grins as he pushes them towards me.

"What? No, these are two perfectly good loaves. I always get the stale ones. And never two of them, just one."

"Take them," he repeats. "Give one to the Hawthornes."

I turn my head. "No. This is good bread."

I can hear footsteps down the hallway, and the boy looks towards me with panic. "Take them! They're yours!"

He's terrified, so I stumble backwards. "What? Okay, I guess …" I say as I clamber out the door.

Whether or not I deserve them, they're still warm in my arms as I carry them to the Hawthornes. Looking to the sky, I can tell there's just enough time for me to deliver the loaf and then bring Prim to school.

I'm at the doorway of the Hawthornes' fairly quickly. Despite Gale spending nearly his entire life in the woods, their house is closer to the square than ours. I knock at the door.

Hazelle answers. When she registers it's me, her face lights up, just as the boy with the bread's did when he spoke to his father. "Oh, honey! How nice to see you!"

I return the gracious smile she gives me. "I, uh, I was at the bakery and traded some squirrel for some bread," I pull one loaf from under my arm and hold it out to her.

She eagerly takes it, but it's not pushy. "Oh, my god, where did you get this?! It's still warm!"

I'm the one to smile graciously now. "A good trade, I guess."

"You can't possibly give this to us, what about your family?" Hazelle protests. She's genuine about it, but I can tell by the way she turns the bread over and over in her hands that she really wants it.

"Don't worry," I answer, also pulling the other loaf from under my arm. "I ended up with two."

"Oh, my," Hazelle says. "A good trade indeed! Thank you so much, dear!"

"Anytime," I smile again. It's probably my all time record for most smiles in an hour.

"You off to school? Well, have a good day, you hear?" Hazelle calls as I climb down the steps.

"Will do, Hazelle!" I answer, finding myself smiling _yet again_. I trot the rest of the way home, oddly happy and light.


	6. A Mother's Cry

I don't pass anyone as I make my way to my home. It's not too far from Gale's, luckily, but it's tucked away further, towards the edge of town, much closer to the fence. It feels more natural, being closer to the sounds of the crickets and the wind, rather than the moans of starving, dying people.

"You're up early, Everdeen."

I stop quickly and turn around. Gale's behind me, hands shoved in his pockets, smirking.

"Hawthorne," I reply curtly, uttering an airy chuckle. "As are you, sir."

He matches my chuckle, though his is more laugh than air. He moves closer, and we break into a walk.

"What'd you do this morning? I mean, besides not sleeping," he asks, swinging his walk.

"Not sleeping is right," I groan, digging the toe of my boot into the dry, rocky soil. "I took down a goose and two squirrels for my mother and Prim, and then I stopped into the bakery. I went through the front door and the boy was there this time. He gave me two warm loaves. Warm, good bread!"

"Those Mellarks," Gale says, shaking his head, a small smile plastered across his face.

We're almost at my house. "Mellark? That's their last name?"

"Yeah, and I think the boy's name is Peeta. He's in your grade at school," Gale stops in his tracks, for a moment, and furrows his brow. "Actually—"

I'm a couple steps ahead of him, and I swing the creaky door open. Swing isn't really the word, considering the hinges rusted out long ago. Opening the door involves picking it up by the doorknob and pushing it to the side.

Nevertheless, Prim comes flying down the steps. "Gale!" she exclaims, running to him and wrapping his legs in a hug. She's petite and small, while Gale is anything but.

"Hey, little duck," he smiles, patting her head. He's good with kids, and has far more tolerance for them than I do. I love Prim more than anything in this world, but she wasn't my favorite family member when she was little enough to require diapers.

"Let's get to school," I tell her with a smile. She slips in between Gale and I, taking each of our hands.

"What were you going to say about that Mellark boy?" I ask Gale.

"Oh, nothing," he says, exaggerating his expression.

Prim looks up. "Mellark? Aren't those the people that own the bakery?"

"Yea," Gale answers for me.

I look down to Prim this time. "Do they have a child in your grade?"

"Oh, no," Prim replies, shaking her head, but not nearly as loudly as Gale. "But—"

Gale speaks up. "Watch out for the roots, little duck," as he pulls Prim right before she goes down.

I smile, and tug her up with him. School is a while from both our homes, and it's a long enough walk that your feet are always heartily sore by the time you get to school. Prim doesn't mind, in fact, she skips nearly the whole way. Gale and I aren't nearly as enthusiastic, dragging our stiff, worn limbs, wishing it was a Sunday.

Prim breaks from our hands to rush towards her friends as we approach school. Originally, just like the rest of District 12, I think whoever designed it must have been proud of it. It's fairly small, or at least it is now, buried far behind some large, dying trees. The back half of the school is charred and burned, but it's a fire so deep in the history of 12, that you'd be hard pressed to find someone who could tell you how it happened.

Gale and I separate when we make it into the school, each traveling down a different dark hallway. It's an uneasy feeling, walking through the tunnel like hallways. In a way, it must be to prepare the boys who will go off into the mines when they're young enough. But, what good is it to trap them in here so young?

The classrooms themselves aren't much better. The sad, pathetic teacher stands in the front, maybe even more miserable than my mother. They all carry a sad, used expression on their face, even though teachers are regarded as the most educated citizens of 12. They're also the most lackluster.

Backless wooden benches are lined in two columns up and down each side of the classroom, with an aisle in the middle and one on either side. The benches are also bolted to the floor, as if we're not even trusted to not steal the heavy benches.

Some kids don't even take a seat on the benches, rather scatter themselves across the room. Any shelving that might have once been in the room is gone, and a pile of wood is tossed haphazardly in the corner. The textbooks we never use are heaped in the opposite corner. If you flip through one of them, you'll find everything from ash, chewed up food and various other bodily fluids of past kids from 12.

The lights in the room hang drably from the ceiling, barely providing enough light to count your fingers. The whole room is as sad as the people forced to sit in it.

I slip into the room with everyone else. Considering how antisocial I am, there's quite a few loners in the grade. A couple people clamber in with a group, but most are silent wallflowers, who take their seats and lock their gaze on the piece of plastic pinned to the wall at the front of the room.

Most of the lessons — the controversial ones, actually — are taught through Capitol made videos. Our teacher scrawls whatever topic it is across the piece of plastic, before wheeling in a television smaller than the one we have at home.

The Panem seal is the first thing across the screen, followed by a brief description by President Snow. He's just as terrifying when he's introducing the Dark Days as he is when he brings the annual reaping.

I take a seat towards the edge of the room, settling on the bench. I watch Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter slide into the room, and look at me. I twist my lips up in a short smile, and she crosses over to the other side of the room. She's actually fairly good company, and Gale and I frequently sell strawberries to her father. But, when it comes to class, she keeps her distance. She's still the mayor's daughter, which means she might as well be a princess in District 12.

Our teacher is the last one in the room. I feel a bit sorry for her, as she's just as haggard and skinny as the Seam kids, even if she went to the Capitol to become a teacher. She claps her hands together, but it's as dull as the town square clapping for the Games' tributes. "Class," she says flatly. "We're going to do the Dark Days today."

She turns around to the board, and her large skirt flaps around her. She has big, sturdy bones, and the limbs of a worker. But, her cheekbones stick out too far and her hipbones poke out under her cotton shirt. When she turns to face the board, her thin, bumpy spine sticks out under the thin fabric.

I watch her spindly fingers take the marker, and carefully write 'Dark Days' across the top. When she spins (albeit slowly) around to face the class again, she has a painful smile on her face. "We all know about the Dark Days from the Hunger Games, now, don't we?"

I study her even closer when she says 'Hunger Games'. I don't have much time to contemplate before she grimaces again and looks down at the cue cards that must come with the videos. "Please enjoy this— please enjoy this video— about the— the Dark Days."

The smile falters, and she walks towards the small desk provided for the teacher. She falls into the seat, cups her head into her hands, and lets out a cry.

And suddenly, I'm back on the day of the reaping, the dull, throbbing roar of fearful children pounding their palms together, for two kids they will never, ever see again. Back on the day when the only decipherable noise was a mother's cry.


	7. Simple

**AN: Put up 3 chapters tonight ... kind of proud of myself, haha. Hope you guys enjoy!**

"Do you think the tributes from 12 could win?" Prim asks, pulling at my fingers when I hesitate to answer.

I still want to protect her, and death is one of those demons reaching for my little duck. Even worse is the idea that those people marched right into the Capitol knowing they had no chance of coming back alive. "Maybe," I finally answer, squeezing her hand.

Prim jerks her arm from mine. "You don't think they can come back, do you?"

I step back. "What? No, that's not what I'm saying. Weirder things have happened."

"Is it because they're from 12? You think they're too weak?" Prim protests, planting her feet into the ground when I try to motion for her to start walking.

"Prim, they're Seam kids, they can't possibly fight against people who've eaten every day of their lives," I say firmly.

"They might! They might be smarter!" she continues.

I reach for her arm. "Prim, be realistic."

"I'm not the one who thinks they're going to _die_!"

She steps back when I try to gab her arm. "Prim, please, stop," I utter.

"What if it was you, Katniss? Would you appreciate people thinking you were going to die? Or, wait — would that not happen, because you're _such_ a good hunter?" Prim really is strong now.

"Prim," I repeat, giving her an eye. "You've eaten every meal you have because of me. If I didn't hunt, you would be dead."

"I heard you tell Gale that you don't need his charity," she jeers. "And maybe, I don't need yours."

I open my mouth in disbelief, shaking my head. "You're not old enough to get by on your own! And if you can take care of yourself, where am I going to go?"

Prim shrugs carelessly. "It doesn't matter. I'm sure Althea and Tug in the arena wouldn't care."

"Is that who this is about?" I move fast enough this time to grab her elbow and drag her towards the path to home. "Some people in the arena?"

Prim glares at me, and it's the very first time she's ever looked at me like that. "I _also _heard you and Gale talking about how they're not going to live. Because they're Seam kids. You're a Seam kid. He's a Seam kid, I'm a Seam kid. Were you saying that just because of where we were born, we're not going to be anything?"

My returning gaze immediately softens. "You know we don't come from the best district," I say fondly. "And that we don't have the best clothes, or the best food. Or sometimes food at all. But, when you get older, no, _as_ you get older, maybe things will change."

"But, what if they don't?" Prim pushes.

I find myself still holding her elbow. I let it fall to her side, and then kneel to her level. "You can be like Hazelle. You can have kids, and a family. You're good at tending the house, aren't you?"

Prim shakes her head, and brushes my hands off her shoulders. "What if I end up like Mom?"

I close my eyes. I finally understand what she's been getting at. "You're not going to end up like her. She's happy. She has you."

Prim presses her small lips together. "She doesn't have you. And I see the way she just … is. She doesn't really do anything. You're the one who gets food and water and takes care of the house. Sometimes, she doesn't even get out of bed."

"It's because of Dad," I reply quietly. "You know that, don't you? That was— that was really hard for her."

"But, it was hard for you, too. You're okay now, aren't you?" Prim eyes widen a little, almost as if she's about tear up.

"People … people get better in different ways. And sometimes, people don't get better. Sometimes, the world after, the world without that person is too different from the world _with _that person, for someone to be okay."

Prim scrunches her face together. "Will she ever be like Hazelle?"

These are all of the things I would kill for her to never know about. "She …" I trail off. If I lie to her, even if it's in the name of protecting her, I will pay for it when she's old enough to realize what I did. And if I tell her the truth, I have let her (and myself) down. I let her know about the real world. Which is such a horrible, ugly place.

"Mom was taken out of a world she knew, by a man she loved, maybe a little more than made sense. And then when the man she loved— when he went away, she realized that it didn't make any sense. None of it did. But, there was nothing she could do, it was too late to go back and change anything. Her only way of dealing with it is acting like she's still living back then."

I let out a light laugh. "I wish I didn't have to tell you. And I wish she was there for you. But, she is, just a little differently."

I can tell by the way Prim clings to my pants, that she doesn't want to speak anymore. She doesn't really understand why our mother isn't really there, but she understands that she likely never will be. Which, is completely the opposite of what I wanted her to take from it, but it is the truth.

"Let's go home," I say, with another smile. She's bent on staying close to me, but whether that's because I grabbed her arm or I scared her when I explained a terrible thing to her, I'm not sure, and I'll likely never know.

We make it for a while in silence. Her, fingers wound in the extra fabric of my pants, and me, struggling to walk with her so close. When we come into view of our house, I add, simply "Don't be sad."

Her petite fingers brush my leg as she loosens her grip a little bit. I move the door out of the way after we've climbed the steps, and usher her inside.

My mother is sitting blankly in one of our few, actual chairs. Prim usually runs to her, but she stands frozen, worried today. She turns to face me, eyes wide, features moved together in worry. She doesn't want my mother, now that she knows.

Or, for the fact that my mother could replicate a corpse in her chair. Her eyes are glazed over, and she's been still for so long that when she slowly turns her neck to face me, I swear I hear rust.

I stare flatly back at her. Her gaze is icily nonexistent. Several moments later, when she remains just as motionless as we had found her. I twist my lips into a simple smile.

Prim stumbles backwards when my mother's lips mimic the action. Prim knits her brow together and slips into the bedroom.

"Have you eaten yet?" I ask.

My mother almost looks as if she's made of glass. "Not yet."

"Not yet. That means you will?" I raise an eyebrow as I hold up one of the squirrels. "Come on, you either are going to eat it or not. Don't make me waste a perfectly good squirrel."

"Yes, Katniss."

I look over to her from the counter. "'Yes, Katniss', what? Are you going to eat this squirrel or not?"

"Yes."

"Not so hard to give me an answer," I murmur as I slide logs into the fireplace. The cinders fly up as the logs crash into them, and my mother's eyes widen.

She then warns "Be careful around the fire."

I turn my head as I look at her. "You're one to talk. I've cooked every meal lately. When was the last time you went near a fire?" I figure if I keep asking questions, I can bully her into coming back. Even if it's for just a little bit, for Prim.

"Be careful," she repeats.

"I will."

My mother brings her hands from the arms of the chair into her lap. She stares at them, as if she's surprised to see them at the end of her wrists, and then bends her long, pale fingers into fists.

It doesn't take long to cook the squirrel. I'm not half as good at preparing meals at Hazelle, who knows what herbs and what spices make what meat taste even better. When my mother is having a good day, her only attribute in the kitchen is making the herbs into pastes.

I toss them onto a plate and hold it out to her. She stares at me this time, and then raises a feeble arm to take the plate. "Thank you."

Her next stare is gifted to the meat. She finally picks it up in her hands, and brings it to her mouth. She looks uncomfortable as she chews, but a certain sort of relief crosses her face when she manages to keep it down.

"Eat the rest," I urge.

"Prim?" my mother answers.

I shake my head. "There's enough. Eat the rest."

She eats a few more pieces, and then I watch her grow more comfortable. She quickly finishes the plate.

"First meal you've eaten in months," I remark.

My mother looks up, and then down at the dress she's wearing. When I look closer, I can see the patterns of lace, trailing not only up and down the sleeves, but also down the bodice. At the waist, spotless, white silk billows out. When I look back up to the neck, I notice the pearls, woven into the lace, the high collar, that covers her thin collar bones and makes her look strangely elegant.

It must be her wedding dress. It's the most beautiful I've ever seen my mother.


	8. My Mistake

**AN: Wow, okay, sorry for this really bad, really short chapter. Churning out 4 chapters over tonight and this morning kind of killed my muse. Sorry, sorry, sorry!**

I pass the pantry as I'm off to bed that night. It's not much of a pantry, really, but with the game Gale and I take down, we needed somewhere to shelter it from the elements while we cured it. The small room, which can't be more than a couple feet by a couple feet, actually has a working door. I lean against it, and I'm immediately swarmed by the smell of meat and salt.

I stand by the closed door for a while, taking in all of the stock. We're low on just about everything. Not only is the drought killing off the animals before we can get to them, it's making the ground so hard that the animals that are lucky enough to still be living hear our loud footsteps.

I'm not sure how much longer the couple squirrels and piece of deer will hold us for. Especially since it's nearly fall. District 12 isn't known for a beautiful, color explosive fall like some of the other districts I've heard. It's only the prequel to a long and dark winter.

Either way, the week hasn't rolled over to Sunday yet. Gale and I decided long enough — wordlessly — that we meet every Sunday to hunt and trade. As the year slips into the drier and colder months, we end up going out on solo trips and taking more time after school to go out together. Trading is a bit harder, since our normal customers expect us on Sunday. But, it's a good enough way to keep everyone alive.

Staring at the food in front of me, I'm not sure I'll make it to Sunday if I don't take another trip. I gave Prim the goose, my mother the squirrel, and I finished off the last squirrel when the hunger pangs in my stomach became too unbearable. I don't completely deprive myself from eating, though the meals are much better on Prim or even my mother. But, if I don't eat, I'm not strong enough to hunt. Which means we'll all die anyway.

It's only Tuesday tomorrow. Sunday's a long way away. Making time after school is difficult, when the good game is out early in the mornings, just about the time that school starts. My best option would be to take school off and take a day out in the woods. Better yet, get Gale to come with me.

I've done it before, when food has gotten really pressed. I march Prim off to school, but I'll hesitate by the doorway and bolt off once she's inside. Once I get behind the fence, I make sure to hunt further away from town than normal, just in case the Peacekeepers aren't feeling as friendly as normal.

Taking Gale with me would also be preferable. No matter how many times I track into the forest alone, there's always game I just can't see or hear.

I can't hunt now. It's dark already, I notice, as I peer out the one, small window of the house. I don't know if it'd be completely out of line to trot over to Gale's house right now and ask him to go with me.

I step away from the window and take a glance towards the bedroom. Prim is likely curled up with my mother, and she'll be asleep fast enough for me to get there and back without her realizing. Not that Prim's teasing really matters, but she doesn't need to know that her older sister was sneaking out. To see her best friend.

I grab my father's coat from the chair it was slung across. I pull it across my shoulders as I break into a run down the well worn path between our houses. We're the only ones who travel it, but we take it too often to count.

I make good time. But, when I reach the steps, climbing up the hastily thrown together wooden steps, dodging the nails that stick out on either side (I've been here enough, even if it's dark I know where they are). I hesitate when it comes to knocking. How exactly would I explain to Hazelle that I need to ask Gale something at midnight?

But, my knuckles hit against the wooden door anyways. It creaks open, relying on the old hinges on the side, that aren't completely rusted out yet. Gale is on the other side.

"Catnip?" he asks quietly, tilting his head. "What— why are you here?"

When I look back at him, he registers something across his face, and pulls the door shut as he steps out. "It's midnight, you did know that, right?" he asks.

"Shut up," I reply. "But, yea, I did."

"And?" he continues, folding his arms.

"How low is your pantry?"

Gale shoots a glance back at the house. "Too low."

"Mine too. I'm ditching school to hunt tomorrow."

He raises an eyebrow. "You're not going to go?"

"I do it all the time," I remark, swatting my hand. "I walk Prim to school, than run back to the fence. It's not like you really ever miss anything in school."

"You could get caught," Gale says. "What if the Peacekeepers get you?"

"They won't," I answer assuredly. "And if they do, I'll trade them something. We know them well."

Gale shakes his head. "Don't talk like that. Both of what you want to do is illegal, what if they suddenly hire a new Peacekeeper tomorrow? One that might actually _kill _us for what we're doing?"

"Since when have you cared about the law?" I shoot back.

One of the candle lit windows of the Hawthornes' house flickers out. Gale follows my gaze, then gestures his head to follow him. He leads me back a ways from the house, where we can't even see the dying street lights in town. "I don't want to get caught."

I try to examine his gaze, but it's a new moon, and took dark for me to make out his features. "You've never worried about it before."

"No, I haven't," he agrees, but he bows his head down and I can see the top of his eyebrow as he knits it together. "You want me to go with you?"

I nod. "Please."

"Fine. I'll go."

"Why are you so uptight about this?" I ask, gazing at him.

Gale sighs. "Like I said, I don't want to get caught. What— what if one us gets caught?"

"What if _both_ of us get caught?" I answer.

Gale digs his teeth into his lip and looks away for a moment. But, when he turns back to me, he parts his lips to speak. "I haven't hunted without you. I can't."

"What?" I throw my hands up. "What do you mean? How come you haven't starved yet?"

"I'm damn close," Gale admits.

I step closer to him. "_Why_ would you do that?! Why would you do that to Hazelle and Vick and Rory and Posy?!"

"It was an excuse to see you."

"So you had to almost kill yourself in the process?!" I cry. "That's stupid, Gale! That was a stupid thing to do!"

"So _you're_ going to yell at me for caring about you?" Gale drops his gaze. "You're going to punish me for loving you?"

My eyes grow wide. "What? Gale, what? Wh—" I pause.

He slowly raises each hand and bows his head. "I'm sorry. My mistake," is all he says before he walks off.


	9. The Valley

**AN: I apologize it took me so long to get this one out, it's a long story! Anyway, hope you enjoy it.**

Whether or not I fought with Gale, I still needed to fill the pantry that morning. Truthfully, I didn't expect him to come. That being said, I couldn't believe he'd stop hunting without me. It's not the kind of thing he would do.

I rub my eyes as I hunch over in bed, blinking away the sleep. The sleep that didn't come, that sort of hung in a fog above my eyes, but never pulled me into it's depths. It made the morning rituals of getting dressed and choking a few berries down my dry throat even more difficult.

I made it all the way to the forest before I realized I had left too early. I was going to walk to school before I took off to hunt. Waking up before dawn meant I had a couple hours to fool around with.

I took to one of the most trod paths in the forest. Between the two of us, Gale and I had managed to tread down the grass to just the bare rocks and soil. I find myself at Gale and I's meeting spot, where it's painfully empty.

I take to the log, that sits closest to the valley. Gale and I have never ventured into that valley, surprisingly enough. If we _were _to run off, just the two of us, we could make it down those slopes, into the valley. Right now it's not any richer than the rest of the barren, dry land, but when spring comes around, it's a beautiful sea of green.

"So, you still went out?"

I turn around and sigh happily when it's Gale. "So, you've made a habit of appearing out of nowhere?"

He throws me a signature smirk. "Eh, sure," he replies.

"I'm out earlier than I wanted to be. Couldn't sleep," I sigh again, but it's not as relieved as my initial one.

He takes the seat on the log beside me. "Me neither."

I look back towards the valley. "We could definitely make it."

Gale blinks and meets my gaze squarely as he speaks. "Out there?"

"Yes."

He smiles a bit. "Why do you think that?"

"Long story short," I begin, pausing to pull in a refreshing breath. "I'm sorry that I went off on you last night. Obviously, that's not what I should have done. And if we could — you know, without Hazelle or my mother or any of the kids — go, I would."

"You'd … just leave? If we didn't have them?" he asks me to repeat my answer.

"I'd go. Right now."

He mimics me and turns to face the valley, nodding. "Right now."

"Right now," I repeat.

I can see by the way he looks across the valley that he's lost somewhere out there. He's climbing some tree, tearing through some forest. Maybe I'm there with him. "But, we can't."

"We can't," I answer quietly. "We have people to take care of. We can't just leave them. You— you wouldn't do that."

"No, no," Gale says quickly. "Absolutely not. They've lost enough."

He's still out in that forest. "So have you," I prod.

That seems to have called him back. "And you. I think everyone's seen their fair share of sadness in 12."

"That's sad," I say, quietly again. "It shouldn't be like that."

"And now you're about to start off about how it's the Capitol's fault?" he turns to me, half smiling. He's been adamantly against the Capitol for as long as I've known him. When we get far enough away from town, he loses himself in his rants. I let him go, let him talk himself out, but I never add any wood to the fire. "But, tell me about it. I wonder— I wonder if it's ever been different."

I tap the toe of my boot against the tree root by my feet. "The Capitol _did _burn all of the history records," I continue. "Remember when they tried to cover it up as an arsonist fire? It was clear they did it. So, it must have been different, at some point. If they went through all of that to cover it up."

"Suppose so," Gale nods. "Then there's the Dark Days."

I'm still caught on the idea of something different. "What do you think it could've been like? Before Panem?"

Gale claps his hands together. "Who knows? I doubt the Hunger Games were in place. And maybe the country wasn't divided into little districts. That doesn't really do any good that strike up competition and rivalry."

"Which is good for the Games," I add.

"Funny," Gale snorts. "It's like the whole country was built around the Games."

I match his snort. "It is a government thing. Created to remind us that the government is supreme."

"_That's_ sad," Gale says. "That there's people who — just because of the money they make and position they hold — get to tell everyone else what to do. Every aspect of our lives. Have the right to put our kids to death every year. That's sad. That's sick."

"What if there was a rebellion?" I ask absentmindedly. "There's got to be enough people willing to end it all."

"And just as many who believe it's right," Gale exhales. "That's the problem. Half of the districts are so cozied up with the Capitol, they believe every lie they tell. And half of us are thrown out in the cold, just making it by. That's just where they want us. Enough of us wanting a better world, but just as many who are fine where it is. Makes us believe we're going to get somewhere."

"Since when do you know everything about the Panem government?" I snicker, stifling a chuckle.

Gale cracks another smile. "Spend enough in the Hob, and you'll have more than enough knowledge, and opinions, stuffed into your head."

I shrug up my shoulders. "Guess so."

"On another note," Gale says strongly. "Got all of that out of the way before dawn."

"Productive," I say simply.

I stand up, stiffly. "Let's go into the valley."

"What? Katniss, we can't go in there," Gale protests. "That's a dumb idea, we can't do that."

I step further towards the slope that leads into the valley. "You scared?"

"I'm not stupid," he states. But, he's standing up anyway, a sort of grin plastered across his face.

I break into a run as we meet the hill, my legs jarring into the ground as it straightens out when we reach the bottom.

Gale's breathless, but it's purely by the sight. "We're out here," he whispers, his eyes starstruck. He slowly turns around, hands frozen in the air, his chest sighing with every breath of air.

"We're out here," I grin. "We're out here."

All of a sudden, he's at a run and crashing past me, sprinting across the forest floor. "And I'm out _here_!" he calls as he runs.

I'm grinning too hard to answer, so I rile up my legs to follow him, running harder than I ever have before, flying between every branch, feeling the beginning ache at the bottom and sides of my lungs.

Both of our breaths are ragged by the time we stop. Our chests heave as we pull in sweet breath after sweet breath of the rich, full air, dipped with evergreens and the fresh autumn. We ran straight from the slope so it'll be easy enough to get home, but I don't care. It feels so damn good to be out here.

"Look at the birds," Gale manages as he catches his breath, hands on his knees.

I look up, following the fleeting blur of a blue jay soaring through the branches. I'm sure we've both caught our breaths now, but I can't get enough of how full everything is. How free.

I tilt my head and open my mouth to breathe again. "I bet you wouldn't kiss me right now," I dare.

Gale's eyes look just as bold as my request. "Is that a real dare, Everdeen?" he raises an eyebrow.

"You tell me, Hawthorne," I tease. "I mean, you _were _too scared to come out here. And now you're loving it."

I hear his footsteps moving towards me before I acknowledge him in front of me. His gaze grows from rock to silver, sliding it across mine. It takes just as long for me to acknowledge his lips pressing against mine.

"I was _not _too scared to do that. And I certainly loved it."


	10. Some Miracle

By some miracle, Gale and I make it back in time to walk Prim and his siblings to school. We run harder back home than we did on the way out, but we're careful to take the time to catch our breaths before we march into town. Whatever happened back in that forest, that valley, we don't want people to get the wrong idea.

Gale catches my glance every couple of steps, as the kids weave in and out between us. I find myself losing my breath every time. But, I meet Prim's glimpse just once, and she breaks into a fit of giggles before stifling them with a smile as she trails into school with the rest of the kids.

For the first time, Gale might be more nervous about something than I have. I've done this before — in the name of survival — that I hardly think of the idea twice. He doesn't usually ditch school to go off and hunt, even though he's only two years away from being locked up in the mines all day, which I think is excuse enough to live a little.

Nevertheless, when the last of 'our' kids make their way through the school doors, we're off. We slip into the shadows behind the school, first, tripping over the unfamiliar ground. We're absolutely across from the forest — and perhaps the valley — we're dying to get to, but Gale's too paranoid to cross it in daylight.

"Oh, come on, Hawthorne," I call as I break into a nervous jog ahead of him. "We need to get a move on."

"What's your rush?" He says with a mock scowl.

"We'll lose the good game if we don't get there early enough," I protest.

Gale rolls his eyes laughingly, and his whole face laughs with the expression. "We're far enough away. Go."

I crack a smile and quicken my pace until we're running, and I can feel the thud of his footsteps against the ground as I come off the ground. We're not running as hard as we were going down to the valley, but as the ground beneath us gradually slips into the forest we know, I find us trailing down that same path.

Gale comes up beside me, still at a run, as he rushes down the hill. He's got impeccable footing, even if he hasn't run down this hill so many times before. But, we're both hoping so fiercely to get down there, that despite the blood that I can feel crashing through my veins, I keep running.

We go further than last down. Gale's the first to stop, and I come flailing to a stop behind him.

"Don't know where the hell we are," he grins as he pants.

I'm the one to roll my eyes, and I'm grinning as well. "And that's a bad thing?"

His smile grows. "_Hardly_," he chuckles.

I drop down to my knees as I pull the air into my lungs. Gale joins me on the ground, and we stay like that for a little, him spread across the ground, hands strewn across his chest, but his eyes are darting and following every movement of the leaves above us.

Gale breathes a light sigh. "I wonder if people know."

I turn my head from where I'm stretched across the earth. "Know what?"

"About this," he continues. "I wonder if they know that it's out here. I mean, even the vegetation in 12 is dead. But, out here, everything's so much greener, so much more _alive_. It's like even the plants are starving in safety."

I smile at the mention of our slogan for 12. "I wonder if the Capitol people know," I add.

"Why would it matter to them?" Gale answers, flicking at a pine needle on the ground. "They're fine in their special, little Capitol."

"Would they be, if they knew about here? Think about it. How many of them do you think, know that this is just beyond the walls of their country?"

Gale heaves himself to his elbows. "Wait. Are you saying that we're not in Panem, right now?"

I flop to my stomach. "Yea, the fence is the border."

Gale's eyes light up. He brings himself further upright. "Are you kidding me? Do you know what this means?"

I turn my head, and press my lips together. "We're in the valley ….?" I trail off.

"We're _out_. We escaped," Gale's expression, in fact, his entire being, is glowing.

I crawl to my knees. "We're _out_," I repeat, feeling the words in my mouth. "We're not in Panem. We're not their pawns."

"We're not in their Game anymore," Gale grins. "We're not their property."

My eyes grow a little bit wider. "What if we took our families?"

Gale's eyes flicker, grow a little bit more solemn. "What if was just us?"

I rock back to my knees. "What are you saying? We leave them behind?"

Gale studies me for a moment before he speaks again. "We don't go now. Give it a year or so. Time enough to think it through, if we have to, and make sure they're going to be okay. We wouldn't be able to make it with all of them. They're too loud, and there's too many mouths to feed. And if we got caught, they'd all die."

"We just leave them behind?" I repeat.

He's not amused. "They'd be safer here. We don't know how, or what, it's like out there. And hell, maybe just us will get out there and we'll find a way to escape. Then, we find our way back, and we bring them with us. We're not good enough at escaping yet to get all of them out here."

"What about Prim? Or your siblings? Or your mother?" I continue, grasping at the rich layer of grass that covers the ground.

"We don't go now," he repeats for me. "Think about it."

His eyes cloud a little when my expression remains confused. I fall back on my back, staring at the cover of the trees. He follows.

"I don't know if I could do that. If I could just leave them. What if— what if any of them got reaped?"

Gale doesn't sigh in defeat like I expect him to. "What are you going to be able to do if she did? There's nothing you could do. There's nothing I could do. If there was, you know I would."

"They'd starve," I continue.

I can feel Gale shake his head, even though he's on his back, pressed against the dirt, like I am. "I'll teach Rory to hunt, and Prim already knows some herbs. Plus, she has Lady. We can see if we can get another goat for them in the next year. If we have to, we'll make a deal with whoever at the Hob."

I count how many times he says _'if'_. "How long have you been planning this?

"Enough to know this is what I want," he says. It's as vague as ever.

"Why do you want this so bad?" I sit up.

He mimics me, which I notice he's been doing more and more. "I want to get out of here. With you. Maybe you don't realize this, but I'm scared as hell to go into the mines in two years. Every time I walk by the mouth of the mines, or I get a mark of charcoal on my fingers, I feel like I'm dying. I've got the nightmares, too, Katniss! I still have to watch both of our fathers blown to pieces every night!"

My eyes grow soft, but he's bringing in another breath to continue.

"I don't want to leave them, I don't. I don't want someone else to leave them. But, I can't take it anymore. I can't stay here, doing nothing, just _surviving_ in a country that took my father. You can't tell me that you think we're actually living here! We're starving, we're all going to die if we don't do something. And I can't do anything about it! I can't do anything about my sister feeling so hungry and empty every day, or the fact that my brother will never have enough to eat so he'll grow big and strong. And why? Because this country, this hell hole, gives us no choice to be out here illegally. I swear, Katniss, I'm going to snap soon. I'm going to lose it when we're out trading, or when I have to bring nothing home on a bad hunting day and my family is disappointed with me. I can't make it much longer."


	11. Who Knows

**AN: Hate to stick in another AN, but I just wanted to reply to the guest reviews (trying to reply to all reviews — my way of saying thanks) and update a little on where this is going.  
Guest — Thank you! I've been trying to use the best words possible to sum up the last lines, so I'm glad you liked it!**

** Dike — Wow, thank you! This was such a sweet review. I'll definitely keep trying to incorporate different relationships like Madge and Peeta and so on into this, I think they're all important characters in their own way and interacting with them helped define Katniss. As far as rebellion/the Games goes, I'm actually not too sure.**

**Quick thank you to Ellenka, whose consistent reviews have been incredibly motivating and helpful! I think I'm going to end up heading AU with this one, because Gale and Katniss' relationship is much stronger than it likely would have been the year before the Games. I have several different endings in mine, one that I've already started drawing out, so I'm actually debating whether or not I'll post mini versions of the different endings because I think they'd be fun to write. I'd also like to do maybe a series of this because I have ideas for those as well. **

**Either way, I'm sorry for the long AN! All of your reviews have been so helpful and I love reading them. I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

By finally letting out why he's being so persistent about _this_, about this godforsaken valley, Gale's apparently decided he's done talking. I hesitate to let my voice fill the void, when I hardly have half as many valid reasons.

"I can't leave Prim," I say quietly at first. But, the more I speak, the more I realize why I'm opposing this. "I don't know if a year is enough. What if they can't make it without us, Gale? We've fed them for years. They wouldn't have us to take care of them."

He doesn't reply, but gives me a fleeting gaze instead.

"I could never forgive myself if my mother went back to— to wherever she was when my father died. That leaves Prim with nobody. And besides, they couldn't make it by without tesserae, because I'd never let Prim take it out."

Gale's being more stubborn than I expected. I trace my fingers into the dirt while I conjure up something to fill the void, but he must've decided he's punished me enough with his silence. "Catnip, I'm asking you to come with me because I'm not sure how much longer I can stand it. I'm telling you that we can find a way out of this place. And then we can bring them with us and we'll be out of here."

"Gale—" I want to protest, but what can I tell him?

"Catnip," he murmurs softly. "We'll be free."

"Freedom?" I ask, but it's not really a question. "That's what you want?"

He cracks a sly smile, but he shades it with his clouded eyes. "Among others."

"You want it for them?"

I can feel the tone growing a little lighter. "Don't play me off as heartless, Catnip," he answers.

"I'm not," I reply quietly.

"Don't assume it's not for you."

I look up quickly. "What?"

"You heard me."

Wordlessly, we decide we're done talking for a while. I'm half worried that I'm going to set him off, going to trigger him losing it — whatever that really is — that he's so worried about.

From there on, everything moves a little slower. Perhaps even time, in it's own dimensional way, pitied us, and let the sun tick across the sky a little slower. Gale eventually pulls himself from the ground, and holds out his hand to pull me up. I stare at him for a while, but grab his hand either way.

"Do you even know where home is?" I ask, hoping he's feeling more lighthearted.

Thankfully, when he answers, I know he is. "What do you think, Everdeen?"

I breathe out a chuckle, and follow him a ways, until he crouches to the ground and pulls up a bow for each of us.

"No snares?" I ask, as I trace my fingers across the bow. I've drawn an arrow across the string enough times to know every detail of the thing, but it's almost a required, ceremonial greeting at this time.

"Don't want to leave a too obvious trace," he replies, tossing me an arrow as we spread out. "Did you see anything out here, anyway?"

"It'd be a lie if I did," I say, turning slowly in a circle, tuning my eyes into every finite detail of the earth around us.

"Got to be something," he whispers, and I can just catch the squeal of the bow across the horsehair string. With a snap, it snaps off his fingers and slices right into the eye of a rabbit.

"Something indeed," I call with a smile as he retrieves it. The first kill is always the sweetest, no matter what hunting trip we're on. It makes every other kill a little harder, makes the animals more and more aware of the predators stalking in their woods. But, some days it's the difference between even bringing home anything at all.

I wait for him to return to my side before I draw a arrow across my own bow. My eye catches on a swallow as it flits from the branches of one tree to what I expect is the next — but I'll never know, because my arrow pierces it's eye before it reaches it's destination.

"We're going to have to head back soon," I call as I tuck the bird into our game bag. "We can't carry this whole thing back home if it gets too heavy."

"Successful hunting trip," he remarks as he stares into the practically empty bag. "Take down a few more and then we go? Might have to head out tomorrow after school."

I answer with a small smile, and crouch down for my next kill. Without a second kill, I pluck the string to let the arrow fly into a vole scuttling across the ground.

"Toss it in!" Gale pulls open the mouth of the bag and grins. I was worried he wouldn't crack another grin after what happened before, but he's certainly grinning for real as I fling the vole across the forest floor into the bag.

It's hard to decide if he's serious about what he preaches when he recovers into this jovial, silly boy when we're out here. But, the more I think about it …

"There's my last one," I hear him say across the story as he pulls up a squirrel. The definitely richer valley means that the game we're bringing in is far more healthy than what we bring in from the woods closest to us.

We're pushing our limits, out here. It's a little hard to remember, between explaining plans of running away and playing catch with a dead vole, but we're even more illegal out here than we are in the woods we normally hunt in. We're smart enough to feed the Peacekeepers with what we catch, and if it weren't for them not turning us in, we'd be dead from starvation.

But, they haven't. So far, long as we don't cause any trouble or rile up anything that brings attention to District 12, they let us hunt. What about the valley? Every time we cross under the fence, we're technically out of Panem. But, Gale and I have still seen the occasional hovercraft when we're out hunting. It's still a question whether or not the Capitol hovercrafts make it out this far, but it _feels_ so much freer out here. In our woods, we can still see some of 12 if we're not behind the trees or the bushes. But, once we came crashing down the hill, I'm not even sure which direction 12 is in.

Gale seems lost in thought as we trudge up the hill with the game bag spread across our shoulders. I doubt he's wrapped in wondering about the legality of it all, but it has been strange for him to worry about being caught. He's always been the gutsy one about those sort of things, and all of a sudden he's suddenly questioning himself.

I leave Gale with the game for a moment while I trot off to stash our weapons. Regardless of how bold either of us were about hunting, we still made sure to hide our bows and snare supplies.

Gale pauses just before we're in sight of the fence. "Kind of funny, to think that we used to stare out there and wonder what it all was."

"And now we know," I finish for him. It goes without saying that we won't mention this to anyone, because our only other confidants would be our mothers (who worry enough as is, or Hazelle at least), or our siblings (who are too little to be trusted). We've only got each other.

Prim's got to walk home alone today, but she'll tag along with Rory and Vick as always. When we finish up our trek to my house, Prim's waiting on the steps, a cornhusk doll in each hand.

"Katniss!" she squeals, wrapping me in a quick hug, before she moves onto Gale and gives him the same.

He rubs her hair lightly before we haul in the bag. Prim stands quietly at the side while we pull apart our kills. Even if we _did_ bring her out there, never mind any other problems with the idea, she'd never be able to kill and rip apart herself. She's squeamish enough as she watches us salt and hang the meat.

"Good day?" she asks as Gale and I wash our hands the best we can. Water's a luxury, so we're careful to use just as much as we have to, to wash off the blood and fat.

"Good enough, little duck," I answer, pulling her into my lap.

Gale stands up from the steps. "I'm— I'm going to head home, Catnip."

I push my eyebrows together as I watch his face, but he's still. He pulls me in for a hug before hugging Prim as well. "Bye," he says simply before he tracks home.

Prim's young, but she's also intuitive. "What was that about?" she asks. When she looks up at me like that, eyes sparkling, she suddenly looks wise beyond her years.

"Who knows," I answer, swinging her hand in mine as we slip back into the house. "Who knows."


	12. Sharp Days

**AN: Last AN for a while! Quick shout out to . . .  
Slhutcherson — I have TORTURED you with this story ever since I started writing it. And for some reason, you've KEPT reading it, and KEPT talking to me! Seriously, thank you so much for letting me bounce ideas off you and constantly updating you on everything that happened in my fanfic world! You're an amazingly, perfect friend. 3**

** kayheshh — Well, there's not much I haven't told you already, but, even if you haven't kept up on the story, you've always been a huge supporter of my fics and I can (and do) bounce/tell/fangirl/scream about ideas off you constantly. So thank you so much for reading and being you, lol. You're just jdkfgkj dfkj 3**

**I've written so much I actually have a blister on my thumb from hitting the space bar, haha. So enjoy this chapter!**

It's hardly — _hardly_, if I must — a surprise when I wake up earlier than I intend. I know it'd be unfair to steal Gale away for a hunt that evening, but I need a day to think anyways.

I'm still trying to decide where exactly he's coming from. I pulled a stunt out in the valley with the kiss thing, but that was just two kids crashing down a hill and daring each other. We hunt together to survive, and partly because the woods are intimidating when you're out there alone. Companionship was something that grew over the years.

I slowly turn in my bed to face Prim and my mother. Prim long since gave up sleeping in my bed, when I wake up thrashing every night. Buttercup, for some odd reason, finds my feet the best sleeping place in the entire (and still tiny) cabin.

I realize that I'm padding down the streets of 12 long after I actually made it out there. I've got but one trade, which is really just a measly handful of strawberries. The Mayor of 12's house sits at the end of the street of where the Victor's Village houses are. I don't spend too much in that part of town, which is no doubt the wealthier sector. Creeping past the Victor's Village homes, I can feel the washed away, dull emptiness that fills the row of homes.

The only living victor of 12 is Haymitch Abernathy, who's claim to fame is consuming more in alcohol than all of 12 uses in water every year and manages to stay alive. All I've seen of him has been from past reapings, where he stumbles on stage to shake hands with the victors (or something of the likes, he's never sober enough to actually shake hands) or vomit on the Capitol escort, Effie. One of the two.

The Mayor lives subtly. Considering that it _is_ 12, there's not much that the title really gives. His daughter is still eligible for the reapings, and the town rumor is that his wife is chronically sick.

I slip to the back of the home. It's not entirely stately, but it's not shabby by any stretch. Reaching the steps, I give one swift tap before the Mayor himself steps out.

"Katniss, eh?" he says with a smile. He's a jolly man, which is surprising, when he's expected to govern, lead and watch over this ocean of sad, dying people. As far as physique goes, he's plump and what one would assume healthy. But, he doesn't walk quite right, and his face isn't entirely symmetrical.

"Got some strawberries for me?" he asks, when I don't return his greeting.

"Indeed I do," I reply plainly, holding out the berries. "Best I could find."

"And best they are," he says as he rolls them in his palm. "What would you like? Something for the Hawthornes?"

It's well known that the Hawthornes are basically an extension of my family — or perhaps vice versa, when my family is hardly a family at all. "If you can spare it," I answer.

The Mayor always trades far more than the berries are worth. I expect he'd be able to find plenty of strawberries on the edges of town if he went out on his own, but of course he doesn't. Maybe, he's happy just to support the poor of his district in whatever way he can.

"Need bread?" he calls when he pops back in the doorway. I didn't realize he had left. It's just not one of my sharpest days.

I nod, smiling shortly. "Always."

They've got to be bread from the Mellarks, I note as he passes them to me. I force a brighter smile on my face, and thank him politely before I head back home before school.

I look down at the bread in my hands. Besides the fact that there's nowhere else to get bread in the district besides the Capitol, the Mellarks always wrap their loaves incredibly neatly. These aren't warm like the ones I had gotten from Peeta — was that his name? — but, they're nice loaves of bread that will fill up a stomach.

I pass the Hawthornes' house on my way home, and I study the window in the back where I expect Gale is sleeping. Really, it's not like him to sleep in, when there's wood to be chopped and stacked and a million other chores to do as there always is in 12. But, he did confess that he's still haunted by nightmares.

I wonder if his nightmares are anything like mine. He only mentioned the ones about his father and the mine, but by the way his eyes grew haunted, I suspect there's other terrors that strike him at night.

Mine primarily tell of my father's demise, one way or another, but certain events of the year, like Reaping Day, bring different dreams to me at night. Sometimes, when the Games are in full swing, I'll dream of the tributes that I only get glimpses of from the required viewing.

Required viewing. I hadn't even thought about the tributes in the arena since the Reaping. I don't even remember watching their training scores that night. Gale and I have managed to be out in the woods, or the valley, every time.

I wonder how my mother's covered for my absence. Sometimes, if the Games have been particularly gruesome, extra Peacekeepers will come in from the Capitol and check all the homes to make sure people are watching, equipped with their Capitol wrist computers, that I'm sure have every citizen of Panem programmed into them.

Even more surprisingly, I haven't heard much about the Games in town. They've been remarkably quiet this year, enough that I've seen nothing but glances, and heard nothing at all.

Althea and Tug, the tributes from 12. I wonder how they're faring. Haymitch's drinking problem can't make for a very good experience in the arena, when the only person who can bring in sponsors is pass out drunk. I almost feel bad for someone, who's turned to alcohol for whatever reason. The thing is, he has the money to spend on alcohol, which turns the pity to jealousy.

I don't have enough room in my mind to worry about jealousy, right now. Half of my thoughts are completely and utterly consumed by Gale, who I seem to be able to relate to practically everything.

I see his eyes in the puddles of silvery-water that collect in the dips of the stone town square. The Panem logo, embossed into it, collections with the metallic-y water, which has lost it's natural clarity with every manufacturing plant the Capitol put up. It's almost as if the world of Panem is a giant arena for it's own kind of Hunger Games.

What if really, we're just players in someone else's games — and by we, I mean the nation of Panem, as a whole? What if this horrible, twisted government is nothing to what governs us in this possible entirety?


	13. Ice

School is a bump in the day. I pay little attention to anything the teacher says, and the whole day seems to fly along in oblivion until it's lunchtime and the mandatory Games viewing starts.

Gale finds me in the cafeteria as we wait for the screen to be rolled down. It's the fanciest technology that's ever been seen in District 12 schools, and only because the Capitol doesn't want us to a miss a moment of the Games.

Which, of course, Gale and I have. Prim and Rory and Vick sit at the opposite end of the cafeteria, crowded in a group of other kids in their grade, while Gale and I sit with just ourselves.

"How did we miss it all this time?" Gale murmurs as the Panem logo appears on the screen.

"I have no idea," I reply at a whisper. "It's never been like this any other year. We've never been able to get away with not watching."

"It's like the Games aren't important this year," Gale says with a snicker. "But, oh wait. This is Panem. Of _course_ the Games are important."

We both fall silent as soon as we spot Caesar Flickerman's hair, which is a bright green this year. "Welcome back to coverage of the 73rd Hunger Games!" It's in his usual jovial fashion, but there's something missing in his tone.

The other anchor grins before speaking. "Today brought four deaths in the arena. Tributes Janice Cirus from District 7, Silva Bond from District 8, and Otillie Roxen and Bise Fairbain, both from District 5."

Back to Caesar. "Five days have passed since the start of the Games. The initial bloodbath took five lives — Atlas Shire from District 3, Griffin Phox from District 10, both Otto Aldjoy and Keene Overwhill from District 6, and lastly, Wade Ivory from District 8."

"This leaves 15 tributes left," the other anchor concludes. "This has been a slow Games, wouldn't you say, Caesar?"

"I would, indeed," Caesar answers, nodding his bright green head. "I think this is a very strategic Games. All of this year's tributes are very clever and cunning."

"And that makes for an interesting Games," the anchor continues. He's a bit annoying to listen to, when all he does is conclude and ask Caesar.

"With that, let's look at some shots from the Games themselves!" Caesar turns back to the camera from the anchor, smiling.

The camera pans out from the two anchors, perched at their desks, before the screen morphs to a shot of the Games. Gale and I watch a little closer than the other people in the cafeteria, mostly because we know nothing about these Games yet.

This year's arena is a frozen tundra. I remember watching one similar to this years before, but that was the year there were no wood in the arena and everyone froze to death.

But, watching this year's arena, I note all of the wood. Only problem is, most of the trees are coniferous trees, which are much too tall to chop from the ground. I estimate that some of the trees are upwards of fifty feet tall. If Caesar's right about this year's tributes being cunning, they'll have to be to cut down the wood.

The shot zooms into Althea and Tug. Gale nudges my shoulder to watch, and I turn to the screen just as Althea comes crashing out of the coniferous forest. She runs as if someone's behind her, and I watch her go from carefully picking each step, obviously avoiding something, to growing tired and careless.

Being careless is a deathly trait in the Games. As she picks up her pace, her feet land into the deep snow, making it harder to keep running. And when she finally pulls herself free, her feet slam into a sheet of ice, which cracks with her weight.

I hold my breath as she slides into the icy pond. As soon as the tip of her head comes underwater, the ice seals up.

Gale stiffens. The camera quickly turns to the tributes — obviously Careers, those from Districts 1, 2 and 3 — chasing her. But, it doesn't move quite fast enough, and there's a lasting shot of Althea pounding her fists against the glassy ice at her head, before her face freezes, and she is literally frozen to death.

"Oh my god," I breathe, trying to shake the sight of her frozen, alarmed face. The camera tries to focus on the tributes running towards the icy pool, and I wonder if the same fate awaits for them. Whatever Althea fell into, it wasn't a normal pond, with normal ice. The ice made no sound as it cracked when she fell in, and it was able to regenerate and seal up unearthly fast.

The tributes from 1, whose names are Leonis Vipointe and Talon Herriot (and I only know because of the scrolling news bar at the bottom of the screen) are fast approaching the dangerous pond. Leonis, the male tribute, is in front. He's close enough to the pond now to see, just by the glint of the sun on the surface, that it's ice. His eyes grow big for a moment, but he's going too fast to stop, and his foot strikes the top of the ice.

And it doesn't break.

The female tribute, Talon, is a ways behind, but now she's almost at the pond. She's running just as hard, but her gaze is up, and she never sees the ice in front of her. Her feet slam into the ice not once, but _twice_.

And it still doesn't break.

There's still one last tribute flying through the woods, presumably after Althea. The District 3 tribute, Eta Cronin, isn't as fast as the other Careers, which is easy to tell from how far behind she is. But, with a closer look, she's also injured, and she drags her leg behind her, as it stabs into the ground with every haggard stride.

Gale's said nothing, even though I can almost feel his blood boiling underneath his skin. Eta Cronin is the last to approach the pond.

And when _her_ feet dig into the ice, including her stabby, broken leg, the ice doesn't even slip underneath her feet.

Three Careers crashed over the pond, where Althea died. And not one of them — not even the injured one, who couldn't run right — fell in and froze to death. Nobody who crossed it died, except for the poor girl from District 12.

"One tribute from 12 left," Gale whispers, but it's not really to me.

But, as if he could hear Gale, Tug himself breaks out of the woods at a sprint.

Right towards the pond.

Without skipping a beat, his foot splits into the ice, until his whole body is submerged under water. The camera catches just one expression from him — lips parting, forming an 'O', as he screams, right before the ice closes up, and he is frozen.

Now, five people crossed the pond. Two people died, who, coincidentally or not, were both from District 12. And maybe even more coicindentally, the people who _didn't _die were from the districts closest to the Capitol. The districts most 'cozied up' to the Capitol. The richest districts. The _best_ districts.

They didn't die.

We did.


	14. Hell with a Choice

**AN: Sorry this was sort of short ... and sorry that I put up 13 again instead of 14! Thanks to Dike & ellenka who pointed it out. Never said I was good at this stuff!**

"You saw that, right?" Gale murmurs under his breath.

"Couldn't forget it if I tried," I reply quietly.

By the silence that fills the rest of the cafeteria (which, like all things in 12, is a bit of a stretch), it's easy to tell that everyone else is still shocked.

"You think they realize?" I suddenly saw, looking up to Gale.

"Realize what?" he replies absently, eyes locked on the screen, scanning back and forth across the Panem logo.

"The ice pond," I breathe, trying to see what he sees. "How the tributes from 12 died, but the others didn't."

"The camera was on them for enough time to realize," Gale notes. "But, they cut out pretty quick. I don't think they meant for us to see that."

I tilt my head. "You don't think they meant for us to see that?"

Gale sits up a little and looks around the cafeteria, before he bends in closer. "That wasn't a ploy to show District 12 how much more powerful the Capitol is. That was the Gamemakers getting after the 12 tributes for whatever reason. They did something wrong. And by they, I mean our district."

I curl up my cheeks into a half smile. "Yea, sure," I say with a small chuckle as I stand up and begin to make my way out of lunch. "See you when we're out, Hawthorne."

He rolls his eyes and matches my chuckle. "See you, Everdeen."

We each take a different direction down the hallways, venturing down into what seems the inner chambers of the earth, closer and closer to the treacherous mines.

Which is exactly what Gale claims to be terrified of. It's a valid claim, being sentenced to spending most of your waking hours, for the rest of your _life_, in the dark, vile mines. And certainly even more so, when the last sight of both of our fathers was the black walls of the same mine.

As for me, I'll have another two years in school before I'm out in the world. Freedom isn't the right term, since I'll still be bound by the fences of District 12. It'll be even harder to hunt when I'm an adult and no longer have the excuse of being childish and not knowing any better.

Harder even may be having to watch Prim go through the reapings. Gale always tells me there's nothing I could do, and really, there is nothing I could do, but how can I wish for my little bird's safety when either way, mine is guaranteed?

But, Prim will grow up. Rory will grow up, so will Vick, and one day even little Posy. We'll all be grown up, no longer lost in childish daydreams with the idea of 'someday', or 'sometime'. In fact, it's been so very long since I've known a time like that, I wish all the more that none of the others ever have to grow up.

Which is pitifully unfortunate, because we will. Gale will live his lives in the mines, as will Rory and Vick. Both of our families are too poor to afford schooling for any other career, which is a shame, because it means no Seam kid will ever _escape_ the Seam. Just another Capitol scheme.

And Posy, Prim, and I? Prim and Posy will lead a life like Hazelle's (I hesitate to add my mother to that list, because what kind of life does she lead?), with kids and work and pain and work. A life that I can't ever see myself leading, not only because I've sworn over and over that I will never have kids, never subject them to the Games every year, but because I hesitate to even marry (despite the rumors of 12 about Gale and I) when the mouth of the mine expects all the men from the Seam to be up and ready every morning.

Thinking of this, there is one way that I could possibly free everyone I love from this. Thinking of this, there is one way, the only way, that I could ever get them away from here.

And all I have to do, all I really have to do, is run off with Gale. Running off itself wouldn't be so hard. We wouldn't be able to carry much, or else it would look suspicious. But, getting out to the valley, we've done it twice before. We'd only have to find our way beyond the valley, and learn the area so we could find resources. Once we got set up, the next trick would be bringing back everyone else.

Supporting everyone else might be the hardest part of all. We're all nearly starving here anyways, and while it is going to be a little tough as far as food goes when we first get out there, hunting will be easier when we're not hiding from anyone. That is, if there's enough game out there to support us in the first place.

It would take Gale and I awhile to get everything ready. We'll be testing every aspect of life in the wild out, there's even a chance that we might never make it back. That it's just too hard out there, for even _us_ to sustain ourselves, for even _us_, who have almost lived our whole lives out here.

If I don't go? We're all stuck here, forever. The boys in the mines, down in those horrible, horrible mines, and the girls doing whatever they can to support themselves and the family they may choose to have. It's hell one way, and hell with a chance the other.

"Hell with a choice," I murmur to myself as I slip out of school. I'm desperate to get outside and feel the air, and that's only from being trapped in school. What must it be like to climb out of the mines every day, far past sundown, only to know you're expected back the next day?

"Hell with a choice?"

I turn around at the sound of Gale's voice. "Again with the sneaking?" I say, raising my eyebrows and smirking.

"Seems like a helpful thing to me," he shrugs, hands buried in his pockets. "What exactly is 'hell with a choice'? Dear god, Catnip, tell me this isn't about a boy."

I opened my mouth and giggled. "No! Stop it, Gale," I reply, punching his arm. "No, god, no!"

"Pretty irritated about it," he shrugs again. "You tell me."

"No!" I shriek again.

"So, tell me what it's about," Gale continues.

I move into a brisk walk. "Later. I need to think about it."

"And I can't be included in the process?"

I stopped just long enough to shoot him a sharp glare before walking off again. "What does _that_ mean?"

Gale drops his gaze and resurfaces much quieter, much softer. "I don't know. You haven't gotten back to me yet. I assumed it was about that."

"Not everything is about you," I call over my shoulder as I quicken my pace.

"Sure seems like my mind works like that about you," is the last thing I hear.


	15. Haven't I Always

I've got to hand it to Gale — he sticks around even after I go off on him. He comes back every time. For some strange reason, he's willing to put up with me day after day. All he ever expects is for me to listen to his Capitol rants, which are nothing more than my opinions, peppered with twice the passion.

Passion. Funny thing is in 12, there's really no time for passion when everyone's too busy surviving. What is _my _passion? I suppose hunting — but I don't do it for sport. It's illegal, anyway, but the only reason I risk my life out there is to feed my family. Besides hunting and trading, there's nothing I do besides school and generally taking care of my family.

And Gale? Well, we live just the same, and him even more so, with three siblings and his mother to tend to.

But, Prim, she has things she's passionate about. Buttercup, for one, even if I'm convinced he's Satan himself. She even takes pride in her daily chores with Lady, carefully milking and caring for the goat. It's not much, but it's a little extra milk and cheese.

I bet my mother had something she cared about back before my father died. My father always claimed that when she sang, all of the birds stopped to listen. It's hard to imagine my mother being out in the woods, where there are even any birds to hear her. But, there has to be some reason why my father fell in love with this woman, who is nothing but a shell now.

Prim — in all of her passionate beauty — is perched on the steps waiting for me. "Katniss!"

"Little duck," I reply, pulling up a smile. "How was your day?"

"School was great," she flashes a returning smile, pulling at my fingers as she drags me inside. "We learned about District 4 today. Did you know they have a real _ocean_ there? Can you imagine an ocean, Katniss? A real ocean!"

I feel my heart falter as I listen to her excited chatter. I can't really a pin an exact reason to it, but I know it has everything to do with (maybe) deciding to leave her. As I make my way to the pantry to scrounge up something for dinner, I'm suddenly struck with the idea of telling her.

It's something I need to talk to Gale about. Maybe he wasn't ever serious about running out there, maybe it was just a moment's thought. When I try to convince myself, try to lie to myself, really, that this was case, all I can picture is the way his eyes suddenly opened and I could see so much deeper into them.

I can't tell Prim, or my mother, about leaving. If Gale has a plan for us to leave without telling, I could mess that all up, which might mean we'd be caught by the Peacekeepers before we even made it out to our valley.

"Katniss?" Prim says quietly from the doorway, head peeking from behind the wall.

"Hmm?" I reply absently, blinking away my thoughts. "What, Prim?"

The rest of her body appears. "You've been in there for an awful long time."

"Just picking out dinner," I lie, hastily reaching out for one of the squirrels from the valley and dangling it by the tail. "See? This is a nice, big one."

"You weren't thinking," Prim states as she follows me to the back door. Gale gutted the kills for me earlier, which is one of my least favorite parts, only second to cutting up the meat as I am now. For some reason, the sensation of the blade cutting into the jelly like meat is absolutely unnerving.

"What?" I can't make myself listen to Prim for whatever reason. "What, little duck?"

"You're not _listening_," she scoffs.

I pull my blood covered hands away from the squirrel for a moment. "Prim, I have some other things on my mind, okay? Sometimes I'm a little tired."

I watch her for a moment, as she brings her hands behind her and smooths her skirt as she takes a seat on the step, careful to sit around the sticking out nails I never got around to fixing. "You've never been too tired to listen."

My heart falls. "Prim . . ." I trail off, pressing the blade into the last of the squirrel meat. "I'm sorry, Prim. You know— you know that I have to take care of you and Mom."

"Why don't you ever do something other then that?" Prim continues, propping her elbows and resting her chin.

I wipe my hands on a dirty scrap of burlap as I wrap the squirrel meat in some wax paper to throw it into a stew. "I don't really have any time to do anything else, okay? That's what I do."

Prim watches me intensely as I dump the meat into a pot. "Aren't you afraid of turning into Mother?"

I look up immediately. "What—"

"All you do is survive."

I furrow my brow. "Prim, she exists. I survive. I make sure you and her and me, I make sure we all eat. I am _totally_ different from her."

Prim is stubborn. "What's the difference?"

I'm determined to keep my calm, Prim doesn't deserve me getting frustrated with her. I take the time to close my eyes, and press my palms against the rough, wooden table. "Prim, I'm not having this conversation with you. You'll understand when you're older. Go entertain yourself while I make dinner."

I watch her out of the corner of my eye as I ignite the fire for the stew. She heads outside, but her foot hovers before it makes contact with the ground, as if she wants to say something else before she leaves the room. But, she never does.

I don't know what any of this means as far as me leaving, now that she's pointed out that I'm not really doing myself any good here. What am I going to do when she grows up and lives off on her own? Who's life to I have to watch, since I have nothing of my own?

All I know is that for the rest of the night, that question torments me. It takes the flavor out of the squirrel, which even my mother goes so far as to compliment. It takes the effort out of falling asleep, but it also takes the regeneration of sleep as well. And when I wake up in the morning, my mouth is filled with the bitter taste of it as well.

Sooner or later, I'm going to have to answer Gale. Even if I carry the bland, dullness of that question with me for the rest of the week, I manage to mull over it all the way till Saturday morning, when I can finally steal Gale away again. Before I leave to meet him in the forest, I drown the bitter taste out with some wild berries, and head off.

It's no surprise when I spot him leaning against our rock. I crack a smile and hurry towards him, and he answers with a genuine hug. We don't exchange any words as we pull our bows from behind the trees and break into a jog to check the snares. We make quick work of untangling whatever we can find between the wire traps, and then reconfiguring them for the next unfortunate animal.

It's one of the more brisk days we've had. The air is a certain kind of cold, just enough to be refreshing, and to put a bit of a hurry into every being in town. Even the animals seem to move a little faster, as if the cold snap has pushed their blood into flowing faster through their veins. Luckily enough for us, it'll mean that our kills will keep for a while.

Wordlessly, I follow Gale a little further into the woods ,where we layer our rabbits and voles and squirrels under a layer of leaves. He stares at our handiwork for a moment, and then utters the first word of the morning. "You're quiet today."

"You never said anything," I reply quickly. He's not teasing, in fact, I know that he's just as comfortable with talking through sighs and breaths and motions as I am. But, considering the decision he's waiting on, he likely expects me to a bit more talkative.

He sighs loudly, and runs his hand through his hair. "You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

"Make what easy?" I ask, but it's all too forced for me to believe. I am exactly sure of what he's referring to, but I'm hoping the longer I play dumb, the more he might forget about it.

I have no reason to_ want_ him to forget. Just as the taste tormented me, I have been perusing this decision ever since he proposed it. Haven't I always joined him in his anti Capitol rants, used every vile phrase I know to those jackasses? Haven't I always wished there was some sort of freedom? Haven't I always known I would do anything to get out of here?

And haven't I always loved my family more than anything?

Haven't I— haven't I always loved Gale?


	16. Uneasy

When the pit of my stomach is half quiet and the tiredness in my head is half numb, I let myself half wonder what would happen in another world. Only for a half a second, I only let myself wander through the half real forests and half real towns of a half nice world where everything would be half different and half better. And when I emerge, I am confronted with enough whole problems and whole struggles that I completely forget my half awake daydream.

Gale has never been more whole with an idea than he has with this idea of running into the forest. He's never been one to half ass something, but he's also never held on to something for quite this long. Never mind that there's nothing in either of our lives that is forever, I didn't even think he had it in him.

It leaves me wanting to give him the gift of going through with this, the satisfaction of having a plan in place. It half makes me want to say yes.

"Look, Catnip. This— I don't know, okay?! I don't know. I don't have any good reasons why you should go and leave your family and everybody behind to go run off into a forest where we could get killed. There's no logical reasoning that could make you want to come with me," he looks down. "And yet, I can't give you a reason _not_ to come with me. I can't find one reason that would make you not want to go."

"You can't give me one reason to not come with you," I repeat quietly, tasting the words in my mouth. "Not one."

"Not one," he swears.

"I guess that's reason enough for me to come."

And Gale smirked, and I didn't even feel half a regret as he towed me into the forest and we figured out everything — from when to leave, what to say, who we'd tell, what to bring, how to act, to where we're going, why we're leaving and who we'd bring back.

We decided we'd leave as soon as possible. The longer we waited, the more we'd risk accidentally telling someone, which could get even the passive Peacekeepers on our case. As far as who and what to tell, we both hesitated. Telling our families straight out would mean they might not even let us go, or such a scene of tears and crying would ensue, neither Gale nor I could tear ourselves away and run off. Not telling them would leave them all worried sick. Eventually, we decided that all they would need was a hug and a kiss goodbye, and our word that we'll be out on a long trip. Bringing things was another matter, but Gale quickly determined that the more things we towed along with us, the more suspicious we'd look heading into the woods. Besides, we'd be better off making what we could out there. It'd mean less evidence left back home of us ever leaving. We knew we were heading towards the valley, but the idea of where wasn't decided. We didn't have enough experience out there to know where to have, but I wasn't exactly sure we had the chance to explore before we were out there for real.

When Gale asked me who we were bringing back, I pressed my lips together and shook my head. "We're not going to decide now. We're going to get back, and then we're going to choose," I explained, but I had lost all the momentum to explain why with any sort of vocabulary or meaning. I had grown increasingly tired with this discussion, with this idea, maybe even with Gale.

"Fair enough," he said with a shrug, watching me for a moment. He stood up from where he had nestled himself under the tree, and stretched out his limbs. "It'll be better, you know," he said, likely in an effort to get me to perk up. Too bad I was feeling fiercely unexpressive.

"That's what you've been telling me," I say half heartedly as I turn to climb back up the slope to our forest, and then back to town.

"Come on, Everdeen," he called as I had made it half way up. He was still back where I had left him, a couple hundred feet away in that damned valley, eyes soft and smile faint. "Come on, Katniss. Come back."

I made a face and shook my head. "No. I don't want to."

"Please?" I heard him cry as I made it to the top. I hovered by the edge for a little bit and stared back at him.

"I need to be alone," I projected my voice down the hill to him, still waiting for me to rush back towards him. I didn't have the energy to drag myself home, and certainly not enough to muster up the emotion to deal with _this_ for however longer. "Before I decide to back out of this whole thing."

"Katniss, please!" was the last I heard as I took the long, pitifully quiet walk home.

I wasn't quite sure why I was acting like I had had the wind knocked out of me after Gale and I had planned everything out. I felt so painstakingly … _unpassionate_ now. For whatever reason, I was just going through the motions.

I poked around in the kitchen, trying to make myself useful in the empty house, as my mother and Prim were out who knows where, likely with the Hawthornes, if I had to guess. But, I couldn't bring myself to do anything, I couldn't will myself into putting anything together.

I sauntered over to the one, pale window, where the early fall sun burned bright as it hung below the trees. I felt guilty for holing myself up in the house when there was always something to be done, always something to do that required daylight. Yet, here I was, inside and wasting away.

I moved to the couch, simply falling into it and pressing my hand to my face. This isn't how I can afford to act. Gale was probably fixing up the last of our plans, probably using the last sunlight to bring down some more kills for them to store, while I let myself lay in uncomfortable, uneasy silence.

I needed to help, I needed to do. I was always able to push myself through whatever, but when I looked around the small cabin, through every bland fiber of the worn and dirty rug at my feet, through every dent in the wooden table with the tea mug rings across the top, or the general dirty quietness of the house, I felt every ounce of energy slip into blackness.

My eyes followed suit, growing heavier and growing heavier. I was left in an equally uneasy state of consciousness for far too long, long enough to hear my mother and Prim slip inside, long enough to hear Prim ask Mother if she should wake me, long enough to hear my mother say "No, she needs her rest", and toss a blanket across me.

It briefly occurred to me that my mother and I had switched places, as I lay too tired to sleep and function across the couch, and as she quietly prepared dinner. And that terrified me.


	17. Signs of Life

**AN: I'd like to put out a quick reminder that this story is set in the year of the 73rd Hunger Games — the year before Prim and Peeta are reaped and Katniss and Peeta go in for their Games. In this story, Katniss doesn't have any interaction with Haymitch, and she hasn't had any romance with Peeta. Katniss has no experience with the Hunger Games and doesn't know anything about District 13. I'm sorry I haven't made this clearer, I had a hard time explaining it in the summary after I chose to go AU.**

**As always, thank you all so much for the reviews, follows & favorites! It makes it much more worth it to write 3,000+ words a day, haha. **

** Dike - Thank you for the kind words! I'll try to answer some of your questions, they're all very helpful as far as it goes for directing where the story is going to go. I thought I'd put in the reminder about this being the year before their Games ahead so Haymitch and anything involving 13 likely won't happen, and I apologize for not making that clearer! But, thank you again. :)**

For the first time since my father died, I am the last to wake up. When usually the only sound I wake up to is the buzz of nothingness, I hear the muffled bangs and clinks of pots in the kitchen. It's the most homely thing I've ever heard.

The small, still bedroom looks as comfortable as I think it's ever been. When I usually pull myself from my bed, far before the sun climbs above the trees, the room holds a particular sadness, with colors that look like they've been left in one too many rainstorms. The pale blue sheets look so light I wonder if they're real, and the wooden bed frame looks as if one touch could reduce it to splinters.

But in the morning light of the window (the only other one in the house besides the one in the main room), it's a room that looks nothing like what I wake up in every morning. I can see every speck of dust floating in the nothingness, illuminated by the light, hanging from invisible threads. I suddenly notice every fold in the bedsheets, every wrinkle, every sign of life, of someone living, breathing, loving, in this little room. I take sight of the claw marks down one of the walls, where Buttercup drew his claws down the length of the wall on a rainy day when he couldn't get outside. I notice the crooked rug that lies at the foot of my mother and Prim's bed, the one my father traded four squirrels and a week's worth of berries for. I see the little book of herbs and animals my father started tucked in the small bed stand between the two beds.

I feel a smile come across my face as I reach out and take the book in my hands, feeling the worn pages. My father always swore that one day he'd have it bound in leather. It would have made the book the most valuable thing I have to my name. But, when we couldn't afford that, he took my mother's linen thread and stitched down the side to tie the pages together.

I trace my finger down the line of stitches. They're remarkably tight — my father wasted hours trying to teach me how to sew, considering it's a valuable skill, but I could never get the needle through what I was actually trying to sew without piercing my finger instead.

Drawing was another skill I always had trouble with. My father was always able to effortlessly memorize every shape and detail of something and have no problem sketching it onto the paper. Every angle, every shape, every shadow, just another mark on the paper.

I turn to the first page. The first ever entry my father put together was just after I was born — and naturally, it's of a katniss root. I can feel the indent of the charcoal he drew it with when my fingertip grazes the paper, and I can see the tea stain in the corner. The whole book has faded to a sort of yellow-brown, and even the newest entries are colored with the grunge. I have barely touched the book in years.

I look next to the careful list of writing beside the drawing. My father always took notes about everything, whether he thought them, spoke them or wrote them. It was his way of remembering everything — there wasn't one thing of his life that he didn't remember.

My smile breaks a little wider when I come to the last note. _'The name of my lovely daughter'_ scrawled at the bottom, in his perfectly neat yet delightfully handwriting.

I push the book off my lap and bring my knees to my chest, reveling in this little time to myself. It's the first time in what feels like forever that I've had time to sit. And just exist.

It's also the first time in equally as long that I've heard the sounds of my mother in the kitchen. I can hear Prim as well, and their hushed voices together. They both suspect I'm still asleep, but either way, I'm not ready to step out of the room yet. Right now, I am home. I am undeniably, truthfully home. It wasn't the belongings that made the home, that I had thought all along, the knick knacks that sat along the shelf collecting dust. It's the marks in the wall, the dents in the furniture, the scratches in the floor, the little signs of life that tell stories.

I slide the book under my pillow before I slip off the bed and tuck the sheets at the sides of the bed. I pause a moment to admire my work, and my mind drifts back to the book. The biggest question is whether or not to leave it for Prim when Gale and I run off. It might be one of the only material possessions that would devastate me if I lost it, but he was her father, too. And it's a little part of me to leave for her.

I hear the sounds of the pots and pans against the stove change into the thuds of ceramic plate against the wooden table, and decide it's time to crawl out of my room. I reach a hand to my hair, which is nothing like the braid I left it in. I untangle the rest of it before I open the door, and let it hang down my shoulders.

It's a surprise when Gale is the first face I see. "You're up late," he says with a grin as he stands up for a hug.

I hug him tightly back and tilt my head. "Why—"

"Mandatory viewing," he cuts me off, half smirking. "Well … you know why."

Truthfully, I didn't know why. I knew why, but not _why. _Regardless, I followed him to the couch and pulled my knees back up to my chest. "We haven't had as many mandatory viewings this Games."

"Nope," Gale shakes his head. "After the ice incident— I wonder if the Gamemakers are doing something to get after some of the districts. Like we've been doing something wrong."

I look over his shoulder to the kitchen where my mother and Prim are, still unaware that I'm awake. If Gale is going to start throwing out theories and ideas about the Capitol, I don't want Prim to hear. I don't want to give the Capitol any reason to touch her.

Gale catches my glance and knows instantly where I'm looking and why.

"Something wrong," is all I say, looking down the ground for a moment.

Gale beats me to the next turn to speak. "I wonder what the Quell's going to be like next year," he speaks about next year so passively, I almost think he's forgotten about running away altogether.

I play along for whatever reason. Perhaps it's because of Prim and my mother in the kitchen just a few feet away. "Didn't Haymitch— you know, that drunk guy who's the last living Victor, you know him — win the last Quell? Twenty five or however many years ago?" I have to explain Haymitch at Gale's confused expression.

"The one who's always vomiting on Miss Effie Trinket come the reaping?" he chuckles.

"Him," I nod, smiling at the memory of Effie's face when the vomit reaches her over the top Capitol outfit.

"Think so. Can't remember the circumstances of that one, though I remember learning about in school. I bet the Capitol would have every year a Quell if they could get away with it."

I shoot another look to Prim to remind him, but it's half my fault when I keep responding and continuing the conversation. "Why can't they get away with it now?"

"They can't be cruel all the time — that'd mean a surefire rebellion. Like I've said, they need to give enough reason to keep half of the population wanting change, but the other half too cozied up with the Capitol to care. It's how it works," Gale sighs and turns to the television.

President Snow stands before a crowd of people, which is unsurprisingly all Capitolites. Considering we're the ones forced to send our children to our deaths, we don't even get to see the battle from the luxury of the Capitol.

"Panem," he begins, waving his hands. He's incredibly blunt and to the point, which I suppose he has to be if he's behind the Games. But, I'm not even sure when the Games started, only that Snow has been the President for as long as I can remember. Even when I've asked people in the Hob like the only Peacekeeper who interacts with us, Darius, or Greasy Sae, they say that Snow's always been in power for as long as they've been alive.

"You are all here today to observe the 73rd Hunger Games. Right now, however, I would like to publicly announce the beginning of something related to the Games you are gathered here to watch today. It is of no secret that the Hunger Games were established after the Dark Days of Panem. The artifacts and documents that remain from the charred Dark Days tell of a time in Panem where disorganization and chaos ruled. Where the citizens rebelled against their government and believed they were superior — superior enough to rule and govern themselves.

It is also of no secret that this sort of government would never succeed. The government is in place not only because it allows the citizens to live their lives with organization and peace, but because the government is able to decide and deal with matters in a way that is not done by the average citizen. We are able to decide things with the greater good of the country in consideration. Following the Dark Days, the actual inception of the Hunger Games were to remind our citizens of this every year. Speeches, while traditional, do not teach lessons as well as entertainment and action. The Games are a creation to honor those who were killed in the Dark Days, simply by the ruthlessness and foolishness of their fellow citizens who believed they were superior. The Games honor through the tributes who fight to the death. Death is an honor in and of itself. Death is hope, not fear."

I look towards Gale and subconsciously move towards him as Snow begins to speak once more.

"In the idea of honor and thus sacrifice, we recognize the idea of rebellion. The Dark Days was the most significant rebellion in the written history of Panem, but that is not to say there have not been such attempts before, or that there will not be in the future. The idea of a rebellion would cripple and ruin Panem and it's citizens. With the success of the Games, all 73 of them to this day, I would like to announce the arrival of an update in the name of disrespect and rebellion towards the Capitol. An extra tribute of both genders will be added from the offending district for every act of rebellion. Should one district stage any sort of uprising, whether it is intentional or unintentional, they will be forced to offer two more tributes for their act. This addition to the Games policy will ensure that each district is punished individually for their crimes against the security of Panem government," President Snow pauses for a moment to look across the sea of people before him. He is the supreme leader, the ruler, the dictator, of these people, and also of all the people in the rest of the Capitol, of all the people in every district. He is the single hand of cruelness. "With that, I bid you all a good night, and a happy Hunger Games."

Gale and I look towards each other as the beginning of the actual Games coverage comes across the screen. 'We need to get out soon', I mouth to him.

'And get everyone we love out, too', he replies soundlessly.


	18. All You Can Be

**AN: Sorry for the lack of updates lately . . . some family stuff going on. Hope you enjoy! :)**

Every fall when my father was still alive, he would take one of the last, nice Sundays to bring a potted grapefruit tree into the house for the winter. For the other months of the year it stood on the corner of the porch, just outside the one window of the bedroom.

And without fail, every time when my father heaved it in, Prim and I flocked to the window, our fingers clinging to the sill, observing every detail of the world outside. It was so trivial and small, that the view was so much prettier without that damn tree in the way, but it was. We could see the way the sun rose in the mornings and slipped through the trees and the way the rain fell and made everything so quiet and peaceful and wet and the way spring came and made everything blossom and become new and beautiful again.

And then, when the novelty of the view wore off, we stopped looking out the window every chance we had, stopped pressing our faces to the glass, fogging it up with our breaths. It was just a view, and we couldn't quite wonder why we were so enthralled with it to begin with.

But, then spring would come back around, and my father would wrap his big, strong arms around the pot and heave it back out the porch, and suddenly the view just as beautiful and picturesque as it was when he brought it inside for the winter.

Years later, it occurred to me how we were so fascinated by the new view — whether it was with the tree or without the tree — just because it was, well, new. And in 12, where there is rarely new anything.

So that morning, when I fall back against my bed for yet another sleepless night, I know why I'm going to run away in the woods with Gale.

This isn't a new idea, this isn't something I haven't heard before. In fact, Gale has mentioned it so many times in the past (which, initially, caused me to think he was, indeed, less serious about it) that I didn't think twice when he mentioned it seriously. But, _I _am only seriously considering it now that I've heard it before. The novelty has long since worn off.

I find it a tad easier to sleep once I've decided that I'm leaving. I couldn't pin a reason as to why, because running away leaves me with a thousand things to say and apologize for and figure out, but the decision is strangely calming.

The only calming thing about the next day is the quiet morning. The view of the dismally destroyed pot, shattered and broken — and the view of my father's precious grapefruit, hastily chopped it into a thousand different slices of wood, tossed into the fireplace, covered with an all too familiar ash.

And the only reason that ghastly stuff is covering the wood of that tropical tree is because of _survival_. It occurs to me for a moment that my father would have never, never in a million years, think it would come to this. He would never think, no, he would never know, that we're just scraping by and we'll all freeze to death if I don't chop down this tree.

And, briefly, it occurs to me that I have failed him. He managed to keep the family afloat hunting and working in the mines, and my earliest years from when he was still alive were the happiest I remember. And me, I can't do it. I don't even have the responsibility (or the terror, as Gale put it) of working in the mines every day — I have time enough to be in the woods almost every day.

And I still can't do it.

I can't keep Prim alive, I can't keep my mother alive.

I can't keep us surviving, forget thriving.

I can't do it.

And . . . leaving? Is that any sort of solution? I refuse to tell myself that I'm running away from 12, because I fully intend to come back. I fully intend to come back for Prim and my mother and even that nasty little Buttercup, and all of Gale's family, bring them to our forest paradise . . .

I am coming back for them, that is one thing I am sure about.

Really, it's all I have left to my father. Saving my family — no matter how — is enough of a tribute. Enough of a tribute that he taught me well, raised me strong.

I turn from the dirty fireplace, dirtied not with the ash and dust and dirt of living in 12, but of every misdoing I've done, and focus back on preparing.

Gale had taken it upon himself to divide our leave into several different parts. He made sure we had ample time to leave our families with as much supplies and resources as we could. As much firewood as we could collect, as much game and fish to cure, as much herbs and plants as we could gather. As much as everything.

Thankfully, they didn't take our sudden collecting to heart, likely brushing it off because winter was nearing. Which, of course, meant Gale and I's survival out in the woods would be that much more difficult.

Of course, we couldn't leave our families with supplies and us without. Even as the days grew shorter, Gale and I spent as much time out in the forest and valley as possible, trying to build stockpiles of wood and whatever we could before we took off.

We hadn't figured out a shelter yet, but we couldn't make it far enough to find any without raising suspicions. We were close enough to running that risk already as we drug kill after kill through town.

"You ready?" Gale says as we stalk through town the next evening, dangerously close to sunset.

"To leave?" I reply without turning my head.

"What else would I say?" he answers, acting as if the idea of freedom and leaving is all that consumes my thoughts.

I break into a scowl. "I don't know."

Gale stops. "When are you going to warm up to the idea? You're running out of time, Catnip."

"Who said I haven't warmed up to the idea? I'm going, aren't I?" I retort.

He shakes his head and remains remarkably placid. "I'm just saying. I thought—" he pauses, and then shakes his head again, as if telling himself no. "I saw you cut down that grapefruit tree."

I let a harsh gust of air out of my mouth. "And?"

"I know you wouldn't actually cut it down unless it got really bad. And I know it was your father's—"

I cut him off brashly. "I don't even care about that anymore! It's been years, I'm fine!"

Gale readjusts the burlap sack of kills in his palm. "Catnip—"

The sun was quick to set, and I can barely make out Gale's features in the darkness.

But, he beats me to speaking. "You don't have to pretend for me, Catnip. It's not alright to not be fine, but sometimes that's all you can be."


	19. Sadistic

It's another wordless walk home after Gale's last reply. He promises me he'll meet me back in the woods tomorrow, but I don't reply either way. Of course, he knows I'll be there regardless.

I string half of the kills up in the small closet-gone-pantry, but end up throwing the rest of them out onto the porch for the night. It's bitingly cold, I realize as I step out in my undershirt and pants.

It's the same cold Gale and I will have to weather every night. For half a second, I wonder if we're even going to make it through the first night. If we're not going to come running back home, not able to stand it.

Truthfully, he'll be able to withstand it — I haven't seen someone so used to pain, so accepting of it. I've had more than my fair share, but I still have it in me to protest and fight and _whine_, but Gale never utters a word. He goes off on the Capitol, but when he's in actual pain, when there's a wild dog hanging on to his arm or a rotten berry in his stomach, he's quiet.

It's not like I haven't seen him at his absolute worst. Sprawled across the kitchen table as my mom presses herbs to teeth marks across his chest and arm, or hunched over the table as Hazelle carefully wraps a swath of cotton across an almost sliced off thumb (thanks to barbed wire that neither of us saw), or even in the house of the district doctor as he vomited out his guts from a bacteria in some uncooked meat. Not a complaint.

Prim — though thankfully her time in pain is limited — is not one to complain, either. The only sounds the little duck ever makes when she's suffering are pitiful whimpers, though their intent is never pity. She can't help but let out the small squeaks.

That leaves me as the whiner of the family. Which isn't too hard of a title to accept, even if it's far below dignified. I'm prone to acting out, prone to crying and babbling in tears and sobbing. Whining when life doesn't go away, whining when it does, but I'm not ready to deal with the results. Whining my way through just about everything.

I look over to Prim's sleeping body as I climb into bed. For a moment, it seems as if this is the most peaceful part of my day — climbing in and out of bed, left in a drifty haze before I can bury myself in a few hours of sleep. And then start it all over again.

This is one of the few nights that my mind and body find sleep at the same time. Knees drawn up to my chest, head— slightly below the covers, I lose myself in a fortunately fulfilling sleep.

I feel remarkably rested when I pull myself from the stale sheets the next morning. I manage to arrange the covers back into some sort of neat fashion before I tear out the door, finding the sun deliciously warm on my back.

Gale has come to counting on my lateness recently, as I always come bursting into our meeting spot at a run long after he gets there. But, this morning I'm the first one there, taking the time to pull a few dandelions from the early fall (which seems as if it'll be just as quick as the drought is long) ground and chew them, just to have something to do.

"Who would have thought," Gale manages to call out as he tackles me from across the field.

I shriek out in laughter, letting the chewed up dandelions fly out of my mouth as he pins me to the ground. He grins wider as they stick to his face, and he leans back.

"Well, that's a greeting," he smirks so widely I'm worried it'll leap right off his face.

I giggle. "And tackling is an appropriate greeting?"

He lets himself fall back to the ground, resting his head on his hands. "What, you've never seen them do that in the Capitol? _Auuuughhhhhhhhhhh_— I haven't seen you in _forever_!" he draws out every syllable, bringing out the Effie Trinket accent that's normally reserved for the Reaping Day.

"You realize we'll never have to hear that again?" I say as I turn my head to face him, stretched out across the ground, just as we were when we made it to the valley the very first time.

"If we make it," Gale answers.

I make a sound. "And you're the one doubting us now?"

"I'm being realistic."

"And I'm not allowed to be realistic?"

"You're more sadistic about it," he grins.

I laugh again.

"No, I'm serious. But, it's cute actually."

"Cute?" I snort.

"You don't think so?"

"_Cute_?" I repeat.

Gale's the one to laugh this time. "Beautiful, then. It's beautiful."

I roll my eyes. "Gale, stop."

"Stop what?"

I sit up. "Don't do that. Just stop now."

"I don't want to."

I bring my hands up to cover my face. "Gale, _please_. Just stop now. Before it gets … weird."

"What's wrong with weird?"

"Gale!" I shriek. "Stop!"

"I'm not done yet," he continues, moving his gaze to the drifting clouds. "Your laugh is beautiful."

"Gale . . ." I trail off, moving over to land a fake punch in his arm.

He easily dodges my attack. "Your hair is beautiful, too."

"I give up," I sigh, lying back down on the ground.

"Good," he answers quietly. "You don't let me tell you that. You don't let anyone tell you that. You're beautiful."


End file.
